


The Lion and the Dragon

by JormungandrRagnarok



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aegon's Conquest, Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire Fusion, Angst, Character Death, Direwolves (ASoIaF), Dragons, Essos, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Faith of the Seven, High Valyrian (ASoIaF), House Arryn, House Baratheon, House Lannister, House Martell, House Stark, House Targaryen, House Tully, Magic, Multi, Original Character(s), Politics, The Free Cities (ASoIaF), The Old Gods (ASoIaF), Valyria, War, Westeros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:47:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 87,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28597191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JormungandrRagnarok/pseuds/JormungandrRagnarok
Summary: At the dawn of the Field of Fire, events are furthermore changed in this AU of Aegon’s conquest upon the meeting between the dragon queen Visenya Targaryen, and the Lannister bastard Tyren Hill.
Relationships: Aegon I Targaryen/Original Female Character(s), Aegon I Targaryen/Rhaenys Targaryen (Sister of Aegon I), Aerion Targaryen (Father of Aegon I)/Valaena Velaryon, Original Female Character(s)/Original Male Character(s), Orys Baratheon/Argella Durrandon, Rhaenys Targaryen (Sister of Aegon I)/Original Male Character(s), Visenya Targaryen/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 25





	1. The Field of Fire

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU of the conquest; I will not exactly be sticking to canon, (though a good majority of it is still the same) and there will be differences between the actual lore and this work.

**Visenya Targaryen I**

"Sister, do you have anything to report?" there conqueror, commonly named Aegon the Dragon, asked his older sibling.

The oldest of the Targaryen sister stepped off the offered wing of her mount, the fearsome dragon known as Vhagar. She briefly removed her clawed gauntlet to gently caress the scales that covered the winged demon's snout as her dragon let out a loud warble, clearly pleased to receive the affections of its rider.

"Other than what you and Rhaenys have already seen, no." she finally deigned the future king of Westeros her attention as she came to stand by next to them.

Speaking of her, Rhaenys too landed near them on her dragon Meraxes and gave her loyal companion far more praise and pets. It annoyed Visenya some: they were about to face in a battle, the simple, kind hearted gestures that her sister always seemed to use would do her no good here.

As if somehow reading her thoughts, the leader of the dragons echoed out his voice: "Don't chastise her Vis." Aegon spoke to her as he crossed his arms over the inlaid dark scales of Valyrian steel of the front of his armor, a content smile on his face as he observed his second sister, and his soon to be wife.

"You know as well as I do that this behavior has no place during a battle, especially this one." "Let her have some fun sister... there is undoubtedly going to be bloodshed on this day, and she will have to burn many to ashes. Nay, let her be."

The elder Valyrian let out a slight snort, her cold amethyst eyes staring at the head of her sibling with such intensity to rival the dragon that she rode; "You speak as if I am some kind of heartless monster. I do not take pleasure in killing countless men, even if they are my enemies."

Aegon looked at her: "Peace sister, you know that I would never think of you as much. But," he stared at the assembled lords over the tents a few dozen feet away from them who were looking warily at their dragons, "our own vassals believe it so with your demeanor. You strike fear in them." he added the last part more quietly, to emphasize his point.

"Good. Let them fear the blood of the dragon." Aegon's gaze was one that was slightly disturbed, and it showed: "Vis, you must realize that our future bannermen cannot look up to you if you continue with your ways." "That is why I am not to be queen. Besides, Rhaenys would be much better suited for the role than I will ever be. The smallfolk and the peasants will love her." she murmured as the youngest Targaryen approached them, a small skip in her step.

"Egg, Vis." the final member of the trinity of dragons joined them, coming to stand with them. "The lion king is marching behind the Gardener. They seem to want to broker a peace offering." "Have they sent for missionaries?" "Yes."

Visenya cut in, "This could very well be a ploy to catch us by surprise." "Vis, do not be paranoid." "Then why is it that the soldiers of house Reyne and Broom are currently circling around the valley to our left?" the sarcastic, and slightly cruel bite was very much present in her sharpened words.

"They plan to flank us..." Aegon muttered thoughtfully, "But the Andals would not break parlay, would they not? Does it not go against the wishes of their pious Seven?" Rhaenys voiced her doubts.

"They are houses of the Rock. It is obvious that King Loren is behind this presumptive attack. He is far too cunning not to seize the opportunity."

Visenya briefly looked at Vhagar, "They are getting desperate. Waiting to let them attack was a wise move Aegon." she had to recognize the ingenuity of his strategy: by refusing to step forth from their conquered territory, and instead strengthening their own lands, they had forced the populous kingdoms to strike first.

"They High Septon of Oldtown will undoubtedly relieve and pardon whatever crimes they may commit. It is the Faith that is staked to loose the most out of this war." Aegon chuckled, "And we heathens are corrupting the good noble people of the land."

Rhaenys lightly hit her beloved on the shoulder, giving him a hard look, "Egg, do not joke about these things, it is not the smallfolk's fault that they are uneducated and easily gullible. Not everyone in this realm has the fortune of being born of our descent."

"Of course Rhae. It is the septons and septas who are the corrupt and evil. They are at fault." the dragon warrior walked away from them, towards the large tent that housed the war council. "The two of you can fuck later. We have a battle to win." her words were devoid of warmth as they caused the two younger siblings to blush and turn red in the cheeks.

The dragolord moved a hand down to the pommel of Dark Sister, which was strapped to her waist with a belt adorned with glyphs and symbols in High Valyrian. The Targaryen guards, all dressed in finely crafted armor, though still inferior to the monarch's steel, bowed their heads and moved to the her sides, flaking her as they did.

The white haired woman had been thinking of the necessity to create an institution, the only goal of said formation would be to protect Aegon and Rhaenys, and the rest of the royal family at all times. She wanted men and women, of Valyrian descent, to be undyingly loyal to them, and to be some of the best fighters in all of the continent.

She had approached her brother about this; and though he was initially against it, a quick spar in the courtyard on Dragonstone changed his mind. Visenya had planned to name forty members in total, to honor the forty dragonlord families that had inhabited Old Valyria. The men guarding her at the moment were candidates, for the project still could not be finalized, with the return of war.

It did annoy the she-dragon: her siblings did not seem to realize the growing necessity of having such a group protect them.

The Targaryen conqueror entered the large tent to sit on one of the comfortable chairs, her cape providing an additional layer of comfort as she unbuckled her Valyrian steel sword to lay it against the armrest.

The morning wind was cold, and rough, the next winter hadn't settled in yet; there were already signs of light snow up north at Maidenpool.

The assembled lords of the Vale, Stormlands, Riverlands and Crownlands bowed collectively to the three royals, and their king bid them to rise.

"My lords, you have my thanks for participating in this council. I know that the sun has risen above the horizon only shortly ago, but it pleases me to see how dutiful and honorable you all are." the dragon spoke to his vassals, though it was more to put at ease the newer lords that had joined their side of the war, most noticeable the men that hailed from the Vale.

"Your grace, before we start, I must inform you of something," he retrieved the letter from one of the servants, "This raven arrived just now from King's Landing. I believe your father lord Aerion is the one who has sent it." lord Raellar Hollard said. The violet eyed, blonde haired man took a couple of steps towards Aegon, presenting him with the mentioned scroll.

The last scion of Valyria broke the seal of the three headed dragon, and began to read its contents. Of course, it was written in High Valyrian; another precaution that they had come to use when encrypting the message.

"My lords, the fortifications and castles, along with the port towns founded on the coasts of Massey's Hook and Cracklaw Point are complete and properly manned. Blackwater Bay is now unconquerable by the Narrow Sea." he announced with pride as the Crownlands houses voiced their enthusiasm, for it was a great boon to them first and foremost.

"What is more is the fact that the Street of Steel in the capital has been built. The forges are now active and supplying the standing guard with Dragon steel plate armor." that generated a new round of applause. The high born men from the other previous kingdoms did not share such happiness; of course, their populace was still mostly composed of Andal blood, but the presence of Valyrian ethnicity was becoming more prevalent overall.

The laughter was silenced when Vhagar let out a blood curling roar, and many of the men looked around in brief panic. On Visenya's pale lips was the ghost of a predatory smile, but it was gone, having vanished just as fast as it had come.

Her brother sent her an accusatory look, but it did not bother her in the slightest. In truth, he was partially grateful, because he had the attention of the lords back on him once more.

"With that said, I wanted to discuss an important matter: the rebellious monarchs have sent an envoy to us, which will arrive at the front lines shortly from now. They may wish to establish terms, perhaps even a truce. But," he paused briefly, allowing the tension to grow.

"There is reason to believe that this is a farce. Soldiers and knight of the Lannister vassals have been spotted flanking around us. Our enemies may intend to catch us unprepared and undefended from the rear." he spoke clearly

"Fucking cowards. It is not surprising that blond shit would try something like this." lord Allard Royce growled. It wasn't a secret that the relations of the two houses had soured after a failed betrothal.

"That is why we will be prepared. Lord Sunglass," he turned to look at the aged man, "I want you to take half of our forces from the Stormlands, and to block the approach of the Red Lion. If they charge, sound the horns." "Your grace, we may be too far away for you to properly hear us. What will we do if that is to be the case?"

Aegon was about to answer, but his sister spoke before he could: "I will fly over you and your knights. If the Westermen charge, I will reign down Valyria's fire upon them." she did not fail to see the look of shock and even fear. "O-Of course your grace."

The middle Targaryen son gave her a silent nod.

Lord Buckler made himself known, "Your grace, if you wish it, I could send out a party of scouts. A couple hundred members of my cavalry have come from the Bronzegate, and they are well rested." the dragon raised his hand to stop him: "It will not be needed, but your eagerness to fight is noted." the men chuckled around the large table, even Visenya smiled for a fraction of time.

"We have the advantage my lords. They are fifty-five thousand strong against our forty thousand swords and shields. And we have three full grown dragons with us. We must break the Reach and Westerlands here, today. Doing so will shatter their morale and we will claim victory once more, the war will be decided soon." he unclasped his steepled fingers, "When the battle starts, we will burn a wall out of the enemy infantry; then you will be able to properly fight them." he stood up, and placed his Valyrian steel helmet back on to his head, an action mirrored by the two women at his sides.

"May the Fourteen Flames guide you. I declare this council session officially finished." the lords bowed once more to their king as the Targaryens walked back to their dragons.

"Vis." the mentioned warrior stopped to stare at her brother, "Yes Ageon?" he briefly hugged her and made sure to whisper loud enough so that she could hear: "Tepagon zirȳ perzys se ānogar."

**Tyren Hill I**

The air was heavy with ashes and flames; such was the sky above the wheat that was alight with the red fires that shaped and encompassed the large field.

Tyren, or more commonly known as the 'Golden Bastard of Casterly Rock' could do nothing but watch in horror as the Lannister and Gardener men in front and besides him burned down to steaming and blackened corpses, the very steel of their armor plates melting along with their flesh from off their bones.

The young man of one and twenty name days had discarded his helm long ago, having deemed it nay impossible to watch and see through the visor. It was due to all of the smoke and fumes that arose from the ground and permanentlytintedthe very ground in a misty grey sea.

The high born bastard coughed and sputtered, tripping over a corpse that wore red and gold on his cuirass; the colors of his king... the colors of house Lannister of the Westerlands.

The lad's eyes were strained and puffy irritated from the presence of the flames. This was one of the Seven Hells, he was sure of it, and no matter how many steps he took forward, the tall fires still did not end.

Tyren tried desperately to run away, going back the way from which the army had charged.

The battle was lost... he had seen King Loren retreating on horseback, flanked by what remained of his lords and landed knights. The bastard had been lucky enough to not get burned by the increasingly hot flames; a thing that could not be said for the rest of his comrades. Dozens rolled on the ground and through the flames, screaming in agony as they futilely tried to extinguish the blazing fires.

The young Hill could not make out the sky... upon the beginning of the battle, it was a light blue... now it was as pure as black. He could not see the clouds no matter how hard he desperately squinted his eyes. Everywhere he turned, he found the same scenes: the gut wrenching and sickening screams of men and horses as the succumbed to the fires.

And then, Tyren felt something... something large and titanic. The men besides him realized the same as they looked upwards.

Suddenly, a creature swept the smoke away, briefly revealing its black scales and body as the force of its wings blew both peasant and knight alike off their feet, before unleashing a line of flames, coating a river of the substance over a line of soldiers.

The dragon roared so powerfully as it flew away into the unknown above that the man dropped to his knees, clenching his gauntleted hands over his ears as his mind was rattled and assaulted by a vicious ringing noise.

The Targaryens had struck again with another pass. In the months leading up to this battle, there had been circulating rumors at Lannisport, at how the foreign invaders rode winged beasts instead of horses. Many had laughed them off as simple tales of drunk merchants and whores, including Tyren himself.

It was commonly known throughout the Seven Kingdoms that the last dragons had perished in the Doom of Valyria, nearly a century ago. And yet, they were here, terrorizing and causing havoc among the combined forces of the Rock and Highgarden.

Tyren shakily got back up to his feet, crying out in pain at the sensation of the overwhelming heat. He tried to move out into a more cleared area, away from the flames as he kept following the retreating men.

The chaos did not subside, and every time one of those cursed demons swooped down to scorch the earth, he braved himself for the hot embrace of death. But it seemed as if some deity, whether it had been one of the Old Gods or the New, had protected him. 

The man of sinned birth allowed himself to hope that he would push through with this madness, he would go back to the simple house of his placed on one of the many populous buildings of the capital of the Kingdom of the Rock, to go back to being the simple Lannister bastard, forgotten and despised by everyone.

But it proved all for naught as he and the men he was running with were blocked off by another set of flames, creating a wall. They had been encircled in a trap, with no way of escaping.

"Father have mercy..." the bastard silently prayed. His lungs burned, and his limbs felt heavy; yet his heart kept beating wildly as the primal sensation of fear took a tight grip on him. The shouts of rage and yells of courage echoed out from behind him, as Tyren whirled around to see an endless wave of armored men charged towards them, spears lowered, swords and axes raised high above their heads.

The banners of the Tully fish, the black stag on a yellow field of the newly founded House Baratheon and the three headed dragon of the Targaryen conquerors rode forth and slammed into the weakened and wounded Lannister infantry. Tyren grunted as he pulled out his longsword from its sheath, holding it with both hands as his body trembled.

He was sweating... he felt his breath quicken.

Casting a quick glance to the side, he picked up a fallen shield, discarded by some poor fellow, no doubt. The golden lion that had adorned the front of it was cracked, the red paint having burned away leaving only the crude mesh of wood and metal beneath it.

The enemy soldiers slaughtered all those who were in opposition as they clashed with what remained of the host, and the Hill was soon caught in a ferocious battle.

The dragon loyalists cut down any who fought back, even slaying those who were too wounded to hold a weapon, even when they threw themselves to their hands and feet, begging for peace.

Tyren was a boy as green as the grass: he had never tasted the glory and hardships of war... but he proved to defy that notion.

He had some adequate skill with his swordarm, and he was not as grievously hurt as many of his own men were. The adrenaline of running through this fiery hell gave him an unexpected boost in strength, his desperation to stay alive shining through.

He roared like a rabid beast as he brought down the steel blade onto the neck of the unarmored riverman, nearly taking his head off as a result. He braced against his lead lined shield as a mace was smashed against it, splinters of wood breaking a small chunk of it apart.

The blow left his arm numb, but it gave Tyren the opening he needed to stab the tip of his weapon through the throat of the offending attacker.

He did not stop to see who it was that he killed, for he was immediately swarmed by the next warrior, and then by a knight in full plate armor, like him.

Now he was guarding himself, assuming a defensive stance; Tyren knew well enough that he would be as good as those lying in pools of their own blood if he was to madly charge at the better equipped opponent.

So he feigned himself weak and tired, using little strength to block his attacks, trying to hold his last reserves of energy intact, as his heart kept beating loudly in his ears. Eventually, the other made a fatal mistake which cost him his soul, sent to the Stranger by Tyren's hand.

Looking around, he caught himself as the battle raged on: the men of the Reach had managed to compose and regroup themselves well enough to hold off the crushing line of combined bannermen.

He remained confused at seeing the sigils of houses Arryn, Royce, Corbray and Redfort.

It was then that he remembered of the Vale's fall to the dragons. That had only added upon their numbers, though it did little to beat the host of eighty thousand string of both Gardener and Lannister.

A member of house Brax was currently engaged in a fierce fight against a man wearing ocean blue colors; Tyren took the opportunity and drove his blade cleanly through his back, adding another corpse to his count. The vassal of the Rock gave him a nod, before stepping forward to assist a small group of his comrades.

He leaned back at the sudden jab of a spear tip which would have taken his eye and life had he not noticed it later than he did. And on he fought like that, his skin rippling with discomfort as the horrible conditions of the battlefield did not improve.

If there was one positive aspect to this brutal massacre, it was the fact that the dragons did not rain their fire upon them any longer, not wanting to murder and slay their own men.

But for how much he slashed and buried his sword deep into the bodies of his foes and killed them, he kept losing strength, and the numerous cuts all over him were beginning to tire him very quickly. It was not long after when another knight, nay, a lord confronted him. This one wore finer armor, symbol of a white tree on a black field was etched onto his pauldron, though it was dirtied by all of the blood and gore.

He could not remember which house held those colors, but Tyren quickly found out that he was not in need of such information: the fight for his survival was infinitely more important than this.

The man of noble birth had better training than him, and it was evidently clear that he was also more experienced. Their swords clashed a few times, but in every bout, Tyren lost more and more of his foot holding. He overextended himself in a downwards slash, and the lord took advantage of his mistake with a shattering counter.

It was then that he received additional wounds, some attacks managed to reach through the gaps of his defense, as was the punch that sent him staggering back, his guard lowered.

His cheek was bruised and aching hotly with pain, distracting him enough not to dodge away from the strike of the sword that hit his side. Tyren screamed in agony as he felt something give out from under his arm, but the breastplate held, a large cut over the point remained from which the fucker had hit him.

His glistening blood soaked sword fell out of his hand; his shield was all but shattered and useless. He had lost it earlier during their duel.

The fall he could not avoid, as the blue cloaked knight approached quickly, dispatching a Lannister shieldman who had gotten into his way. Tyren scrambled to pull his dagger out, and shifted to the side as then reached upward and stabbed the aggressor in the juncture between the arm and elbow, where the plate did not cover his brown colored tunic, generating a pained yell from within the helmet.

Tyren pushed against him, somehow managing to win over the better rested knight, as he climbed on top of him and began to savagely pierce his knife into the cunt's neck as the other tried to hold him still with his own hands.

Alas, he could not stop his inevitable demise, as his struggle weakened and he began to choke on his own blood. Tyren screamed in desperation as he killed the man he was sitting over, that was until he was struck over the head, and black flashed over his vision as he fell to the ground, barely feeling the impact against the dry dirt.

Was this death?

What horrors awaited him for being born out of lust and wedlock?

It felt as if years had passed when he felt himself being dragged... moved somewhere by several hands.

He could hardly hear what it was that they were saying as his head swam in the booming pain.

"He killed the lord." "The dragons will feast on his meat." "King Aegon will be displeased." those were some of the things that he understood... that and nothing else.

His eyes were wet as they burned, soot covering his bleeding and cut face. The pain in his side still did not abide as it kept glaring every so often with the rough handling of his enemies. As his vision began to clear, he realized that he had been forced to his knees, but he did not have the strength to look up, so he was condemned to stare at the ground. His armor had been removed save for the leg plates, leaving him exposed in his simple clothes.

The cold biting edge of a dagger, his own dagger, was pressed against the soft skin of his throat staining it with the blood of his latest victim, and sending a smell of iron up to his nose.

His dirty brown hair was grabbed as his head was yanked backwards, forcing him to look up as a result as he let out a small hiss of pain. Tyren could properly make out the space in front of him now, though it got blurry the further away he looked and saw that many of his own lords were being forced to the ground the same as he was.

There were still many fires, and the ground was littered with corpses, many of which, he was unable to identify because of the burns... but that meant that they were his comrades.

He saw the Targaryen soldiers litter the area, these were dressed in plated steel, of excellent quality even beating the Lannister's craftsmanship, and possessing their unnatural grey shine to it. The armor that the men wore seemed to be relatively un damaged, he could not spot one shieldman who did not sport a fine set; the same could not be said for his own desecrated armor which lied in the ashes, somewhere in this fiery hell...

It was then that he noticed the three individuals that marched forward followed by a slew of other soldiers. The men guarding the remaining Gardener and Lannister forces gave a slight bow to them. The three were easily recognizable by their ornate and finely crafted armor, the most beautiful he had ever seen, Particularly, the dark ripples in them seemed to shine and brighten like a thousand shards of broken glass whenever they moved... and Tyren came to the conclusion that the armor was composed of the legendary Valyrian steel.

Their pure white manes of hair were also another surprising trait, and the presence of their dark red capes, as the three terrifying beasts flying above them could only mean that these were the Targaryen conquerors themselves.

The man stopped before the assembled Lannister remains and spoke out in a voice that rivaled even that of King Loren in authority: "Lords and men of the Reach and Westerlands. I am Aegon Targaryen, First of My Name, and King of Westeros. Your army has been shattered, defeated by the might of our dragons. King Mern the IX of House Gardener is no more, his line is no gone with him. King Loren I of House Lannister is being actively hunted by our finest trackers as I speak. Your rulers are conquered and so are you; it is with this that I offer you the mercy to bow down and recognize me as your one true king. Pledge your swords to me and you will know of my venerable mercy; if not, then your lives shall be ended by fire and blood." almost for effect, the dragons roared simultaneously, causing the Targaryen vassals to cheer.

Tyren closed his eyes upon seeing several of the houses that had stood by them, bound by alliance give up their loyalty and swear allegiance to their new rulers. He sighed deeply as he heard the gruff man that was roughly handling him press the dagger harder, "What are doing, you lion shit?" he barked out.

"What?" Hill weakly replied, his throat raw and dry, "You killed Mandron Blackwood you fucker!" Tyren gasped in pained shock and agony as the man kicked his ribs. The bastard son retched and vomited blood, wheezing at the loss of breath. It felt as if someone was pressing a hot brazing poker to his side, and his chest felt heavy, he could not get up from his hunched position. "He was my liege lord! He granted my family wealth and a place at Raventree Hall!" he mercilessly kicked him again, sending him sprawling out on the ground, still coughing up blood.

Tyren had never felt such torment in his life ever before, nothing could compare to this.

He grasped his side, and could not stop the horrendous coughing fit that ailed him. But then, when he thought he was going to get beaten again, he heard a regal voice order the fucker behind him to stop.

Tyren grunted in pain as he got on all fours, noticing the pair of armored boots, inlaid with lines in crusted with rubies and small gems that were of the same color; and the cape that was lay slightly pooled behind the individual's legs. He slowly got up to his knees, out of breath and aching.

The bastard's green eyes traveled upwards, realizing that the Targaryen in front of him was one of the royals, until finally, they stopped when encountering Visenya's own set of glacial violet eyes.

Time seemed to stop as the dragonrider pierced his very soul with those unsettlingly, beautiful eyes, which framed her face perfectly, adding to her high cheekbones, thin rosy lips and pale flesh, crowned with a mane of pearl white hair which descended into a single braid.

Tyren had never seen a more stunning, ethereal woman in his entire life... she was the Maiden incarnate...

But that beauty, while striking, contained a cold, harsh gleam over them, that was enough so to rival the icy plains of the Lands of Always Winter north of the Wall.

"Blackwood," she began, directing her petrifying gaze towards the bannerman behind him, "Why are you beating this prisoner?"

The warrior stuttered for a moment, shocked to his very core at the appearance of the ruthless Targaryen.

"Your grace, this is no man! He has slain fifteen men, including my lord liege Mandron Blackwood!" he shouted threateningly pointing the dagger towards him. The rays of sun caused the pommel to glint in the light with a golden aura, which caused Visenya's browns to furrow in the slightest.

She opened her gauntleted hand, the taloned tips resembling the claws of a dragon at the end of her fingers were stained with red. "Give it to me." her voice was devoid of warmth, as she asked, no, demanded the weapon.

Cowering beneath her gaze, the trembling man placed the knife into her expecting palm and darted back, as if fearing her to suddenly attack him, like a dragon.

She silently observed it, noticing the golden lions that were engraved in its hilt. "This is not an ordinary weapon meant to be wielded by a footman. Tell me," her fiery gaze turned back to Tyren, "Who are you boy? Who are your mother and father?"

To his credit, Hill did not shrink from coming under the scrutiny of the feared conqueror, "I am Tyren..." "Do not keep me waiting Westerman." she urged him to continue, her annoyance at his hesitation was palpable. It was then that Tyren lowered his head, out of shame, "Hill... my father was Tygett Lannister, brother of King Loren. My mother was Alys of Lannisport... I am a bastard, my lady." he was kicked in the back, the pain in his side flaring again so much that he gasped for air and could not scream.

"You will address her as her title demands you filthy- "If you speak another word, I will have your tongue ripped out; and if you presume to hit this prisoner once more, then I will have you be a meal to my mount." the tip of Dark Sister pushed against the man's throat, the blade almost pulsing with the need to drink his blood.

"Leave us." she concluded dismissively; the soldier bowed and ran away. Visenya sheathed her beloved sword back into its scabbard, before gazing down at the man at her feet. Her face was unreadable, but she stepped away from him and turned to the guards that were accompanying her, and retrieved her helm from one of them, which she placed back on her head, "Have him be treated by one of the healers for his wound. After that, I want him to be locked in one of the cages, alone. He is of importance." "It will be done your grace." she did not reply, but simply walked away as Vhagar landed in the clearing, the gleaming Valyrian armor covering a good portion of the dragon's body.

After briefly greeting her mount, she climbed onto the saddle and placed Tyren's dagger in one of the many pouches.

"Sōvegon Vhagar." and the dragon obeyed her commands, rising higher and higher until they reached the clouds that overlooked the burning valley below. Up there, in the windy skies, there were no flames, no trails of smoke, it was completely pure and untouched.

Following that day, and for the rest of centuries to come, that massacre would be known to all as the Field of Fire.


	2. Bastards and Queens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We follow the aftermath of the battle as Tyren comes to terms with the reality of his situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter in less than two days, so apologies for any grammatical or spelling errors.

**Tyren Hill II**

He had not expected this.

Never, could the Hill have imagined what would await him on the battlefield. And yet, he was still in Westeros, far away from the Seven Hells.

The bastard tried not to move so much as to not aggravate the bandages wrapped around his torso. He found out, quite uncomfortably, that they were prone to irritate his broken ribs. In the end, it was the ribs that had been shattered, instead of the plate.

Tyren had not realized the gravity of his wounds until he saw the all encompassing black mark that mattered the side of his torso. The fact that he had been so brutality kicked there not once, but twice, made it so the maester had trouble properly aligning them in place so that they would naturally heal in the correct position. It was a process that require no small use of Milk of the Poppy.

"It is by the Fourteen Flames' blessing that your lung hadn't collapsed. You would remain astonished at how many an injury it is common." the middle aged scholar had said, while applying the white bandages over the bruised flank.

And hours after that, he had been given a meager dinner, consisting of a small loaf of bread and a cup of water. The guards were courteous enough to place the tray right beside of him, though he was still held at a longsword by the heart, ready to end him should he have tried to escape. Not that it would have mattered anyway: with how he was currently hurt, and with the addition of the tight bindings, it was impossible for him to even attempt to escape from the enclosure.

And then it had continued, for many more hours to come. Tyren was drained from the battle and tired, yet sleep eluded him: whenever he tried to rest, his mind would think back to the unsettling and breathtaking violet eyes that had captured him and held him captive. Oh, how they still made him tremble, the fire behind those shining sapphires!

There was no doubt that the woman... the conqueror was a dragon incarnate, she was the fury of Old Valyria come again; reborn after the destruction brought forth by the Doom.

"Hey!" he heard a gruff voice voice call out to him from his left. "Hey! Look over here!" Tyren actually turned around, albeit slowly, to look through the thick wooden poles that made his cage.

He saw a group of men, five in total, wearing tunics which displayed the golden lion sigil. The bastard son was illegitimate; that was why he was not allowed to display the prideful beast upon his coat of arms.

"What do you want?" he asked, lowering his voice. The guards still had yet to notice the conversation. After having pondered for many a minute, Tyren had noticed that these were a combination of Rivermen and Stormmen. They were not as attentive or as serious as the Targaryen knights it would seem; as they still had yet to realize that the prisoners were conversing with the others held captive in the cage made out of wood.

"You are a Westerman as well?" he gave them a nod, "Yes. I am a foot soldier of house Lannister." his comrades smiled at each other. Their apparent leader spoke to him again, "Do you want to get out of this shithole?" if it was a jest, then it was one in poor taste.

But he decided to humor him with an uncaring shrug of the shoulders: "Why would I ever want to remain here?" "Good, good. We will drink to this!" he held out a wineskin in his hand, offering it for him to take.

Tyren's eyes widened, not expecting to see the man hold the beverage, "Take it! Drink it with us!" he jovially shouted and the high born bastard looked at him as if he were mad. Inevitably, the guards noticed and forcefully grabbed the wineskin away from the tight grasp of the clearly deranged men, who had shouted, punched, clawed and even bit as if they were dogs.

By the end of it, a few were sporting a black eye, and Tyren shook his head at their stupidity. He ignored them as they kept noisily muttering to themselves. The bastard did not care enough to listen to their conversations.

An echoing roar caused him to jolt in surprise, which sent a stab of pain into his side once more. "Damned dragon..." he whispered as the winged deity flew above the camp, basking all of the tents and people in its shadow.

If only he had known that the magical creatures still lived... he would have never taken the call to arms when King Loren mustered his forces. It would have been better to be branded a craven, then to fight against the unbeatable conquerors. If his... kinsman still hadn't been captured, then he would retreat to Cornfield keep first, to resupply his stores of food and cavalry, and then would settle and barricade himself inside the Rock itself.

The Lion was too proud to concede defeat and bow to the foreign victors. And many more would pay the price of it with their blood.

He did not know what awaited him next.

And so the young lion rested, licking his wounds.

**Visenya Targaryen II**

"The Dornish have yet to make it past the Marches, but it seemed as if there is some kind of conflict taking place." Jon Mooton, the assigned general of the Targaryen forces spoke, pointing towards the area on the large map that showed the entire continent of Westeros.

The young, white haired monarch leaned over the mal himself, deep in thought. "Does it concern us?" "At the moment, no your grace." the dragonlord looked at him: "You wish to say more, speak your mind."

The lord of Maidenpool appeared uncomfortable upon fulfilling his kingdoms wishes: "The Marcher lords of the Stormlands are expressing discontent at the thought of leaving their keeps and lands unguarded against the vipers of Dorne." Rhaenys chuckled, "They have nothing to fear while standing under our protection." "It does not take away years of hatred. Even when the Martells will bend the knee, there will ways be mutual dislike between the two people. If we are not careful, the we will have a bloody conflict stain our lands once more."

"That will be accomplished in due time Vis. For now," he walked next to the fire and sat down on one of the chairs, taking the Valyrian steel circlet off his head, "We must first obtain the Reach and the Westerlands."

The youngest Targaryen sibling slunk next to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and softly laying her chin on his head. Lord Mooton looked away, clearly embarrassed by the situation, "Your graces, I will take my leave with your allowance." he spoke, almost tripping over his words. "Of course. I shall see you on the morrow." "I bid you goodnight your grace, princesses." he bowed to them each and quickly left, leaving the three dragons alone.

"Word has reached that Muña is helping Orys around Storm's End, as well with Summerhall." Rhaenys spoke quietly, pressing a lustful kiss to her brother's temple.

"At least they are closer together now." it had taken years for Valaena to accept their father's bastard as one of her own brood; but once she had warmed to the dutiful young boy, she had cared for him like he was truly her own son, much to the delight of the three royal monarchs, who were all fond of the black haired man.

"Our child will have their own castle and lands. Their own people to command and protect. I will instruct the bards to sing praises of them, and they too shall know of the beauty in music and poetry." she wishfully sighed, as Aegon gave her another peck on the lips.

"Your firstborn will be the Prince or Princess of Dragonstone, as well as the Ruler of the Realm; I need not remind you that." the younger siblings laughed aloud, "We never said we would only have one child Vis." Meraxes' rider commented.

But Visenya did not answer, instead, she still kept staring at the dagger that belonged to the Lannister bastard. Her gauntleted thumb circled over the ruby at the pommel of it, already thinking of ways in which this could help their conquest.

"We are in agreement that King Loren will lose his head, yes?" "Correct sister. He has disrespected us and sullied Rhae's honor with cruel and false lies." she placed the ornate dagger on the table and traced her hand over Dark Sister instead.

"I will take Casterly Rock for myself." she announced, not turning around to look at the two lovers. "You intend to usurp the ancestral seat of the Lannisters?" Aegon began talking, but Visenya turned to look at him, unmovable and decisive as the dragons of old.

"No. I will not sully the keep of the lions, and to correct you on that, the fortress belonged to house Casterly." "Founded by Corlos the Huntsman." the king continued, "I did not expect you to be so interested in the history of the Westerlands." Aegon pointed out.

Visenya scoffed, grabbing a jeweled cup circled in strands of silver and Valyrian steel; she poured herself a generous amount of Arbour Gold, and drank from it. "It is were I wish to live, to rule and settle my legacy." she took the wooden lion that was placed on the location of Lannisport on the map.

"The lands of the west are rich both in gold and grain. The rocky hills act as a natural defense and nearly all of the major castles are constructed inside, or around them." she cast the little figure into the fire with a flick of her fingers. "The Lannisters may have ruled over the Westerlands with prosperity for millennia,"

She then placed the figure of a dragon on top of the city, "But with the lost secrets of Valyria, a new golden age will follow."

Aegon looked perplexed: "Are you sure that you would want to stay there?" "Yes Aegon. You and Rhaenys will have to focus on consolidating our power throughout the Stormlands, Riverlands and the Vale. They are already being influenced and are changing for the better like we had planned, but they still require supervision and rule by a powerful monarch. Let me deal with these two former kingdoms."

He still did not appear convinced, "The smallfolk will despise you for introducing Valyrian customs." but all that the dragonrider did was pinch the bridge of her nose, "They have lived for decades under the guidance of those rotten septons. That is why we will start bringing some of our Valyrian people to these lands. It will take time, yes, but eventually, the immigration will pay off in the next years to come. We will achieve true and total control in these wealthy lands, exactly like our ancestors did in the Crownlands."

"And Valyria shall be reborn anew, offering knowledge to all, and forging a better realm." the youngest of the trio stated, as Aegon pulled her on top of so that she lay resting against his body; the female Targaryen nearly curling around him like a cat.

"We were one of the least prominent dynasties of the forty dragonlord families on the shattered homeland; but now, we will be the rulers of the world." Aegon smiled at her: "The gods will favor us for the rest of the ages."

Still, that did leave a question unanswered, a fact that Rhaenys was quick to remember: "Vis, you have yet to tell us how you will achieve lead over the lion's vassals. You will not end their line like we did with Harren Hoare, right?"

The warrior queen raised an eyebrow at her as she threw her the dagger, which Aegon caught. "What does this mean?"

"Loren Lannister's only sibling was Tygett Lannister, who died nay nine years ago of a fever." "And?" the dragon king beckoned her to continue, "He sired a low born son: Tyren Hill."

The two's eyes widened, "You will marry him?" Rhaenys asked incredulously, Visenya hummed a laugh, though it wasn't a warm one, "It will bind me to the seat of the Westerlands." her younger siblings did not seem to lose their surprise.

"It would be hypocritical of you to view my choice badly: is Orys not our brother in blood?" she rhetorically asked, drinking another sip of the wine, and licking her lips to remove the red liquid.

"It is not that sister it is just that... this is a particular decision, for a lack of a better term." "It is a wise choice Aegon." she stood up next to them, her clawed gauntlets smoothing out the blood red cape.

"I did not come over this rare opportunity by chance: it was a well thought out and studious process," she took the dagger away from her brother's hand, "In marrying the male, I will hold a better claim over the Westerlands, and more so, the boy is collectively frowned upon by the lords for his bastardry. They would never support him, even if he is the only male heir left and even if we legitimize him. That gives us the possibility to seize control and power, thus asserting our unquestioned dominance and the start of the great change."

"And for the need of heirs?" "I will bear his children as it is my duty. But do not fret, our offspring will form a cadet branch to the main line of the family, and I will ensure the custom of marriage between siblings is continued." she finished her wine and placed the cup down on a small table to the side of one of the chairs.

"If need be, we could even arrange to have our sons and daughters be betrothed to each other as cousins. And once again, it will be only a matter of time before the Lannisters fade from history to be replaced by pure blooded Valyrians." the future King of the Seven Kingdoms let out a small laugh filled with mirth.

"You astonish me once more Vis." she did not repay or even acknowledge the compliment, instead, she walked towards the exit of the tent, and into the light of the setting sun.

Before stepping out fully, she spoke, loud enough so that they could hear: "None of this has happened as of yet... but it will be done and finished by the time that we lay old and frail; this I swear."

**Tyren Hill II**

The bastard son shivered as he hugged himself, trying to keep warm as the sun began to disappear over one end of the horizon, the night rising on the opposite one.

The men in the other cage had been escorted out, taken somewhere else. In truth, they were not stupid drunks, they were somewhat smart contrary to what he believed: while the guards where distracted, drinking from the wineskin, the Lannister men had taken to sawing the robust pieces of wood. One of them had a knife hidden in his boot, and the others wisely stood huddled in front of him, so that they covered the sight of his mischief.

To make so that the scraping of steel did not alert the slightly intoxicated enemy bannermen, they began to loudly talk amongst one another. For a while, it did indeed work, much to Tyren's own chagrin; if only he had been in another cage with a few other of his fellow Westermen, without the damned chains that dug into his wrists, then perhaps he could have escaped as well. Alas it was not meant to be that way.

Their ingenious plan ended in flames when the group of guards changed and the Targaryen soldiers wearing full steel plate took their place.

In less than a minute, they had already noticed their attempt to flee captivity, and were viciously and brutally beaten and dragged away by either the arms or legs.

Since that chaotic event, the young man had spent nearly the rest of the day alone, having only himself to keep company.

"Westerman, wake up." he heard a voice order him si he raised his head to see one of the Targaryen soldiers looking directly at him through the gaps of the poles. Tyren stared at him tiredly and then lowered his head once more, frankly not caring for what he wanted.

"It is rude not to answer when someone is talking to you." Hill frowned, closing his eyes: "And it is equally if not more rude to interrupt someone who is simply trying to get some rest." his forehead creased discomfort, as did the rest of the features on his face; a headache was beginning to settle in as he tried to clear his mind.

But the noise of the opening lock forced his instincts to act, so he saw as the armored man entered the cage, bending his back a bit so as to fit in the small enclosed space. In his arms, he held a rough woolen coat.

"Wear this. The night will get colder." partially surprised, Tyren slipped the covering over his frame and tucked his knees close to his chest while leaning back against the sturdy wood.

"Gods... this is much better..." he whispered to himself as the shivers mostly subsided. The unnamed man closed the makeshift door of the cage and went to stand close to the fire that had been lit by a couple of his companions.

Tyren noticed absently that small puffs of steam would escape his mouth every time that he breathed. Winter was fast approaching, and he hoped that the peasants and farmers had gathered a large, bountiful harvest. If not, then Lannister coffers would spare a few gold lions to buy some grain from the Reach, though it rarely happened. Or at least Tyren had been told so by Maester Hugar back in the luxurious rooms at Casterly Rock when he was still but a boy of eight name days.

The memories of such times were good ones: the old maester had been one of the few people who hadn't judged him for his status as illegitimate. "It is because you did not have a choice in the matter," he had confessed to him one time, "No one asks to be born in this realm, whether it be to a pair of smallfolk, or even nobles." he had always made sure that he kept up with his studies, and had even given additional lessons when he had the time to.

Of course, these teachings were done in secrecy, least the septa of the castle caught wind of it and began spouting nonsense about him trying usurp his place, his betters.

He hated the septon and septa equally both, nearly more than King Loren." they always preached about good tidings and purity of the soul, they instructed the followers of the Faith to always try and help the poor with food; to be grateful and careful not to consume too much of it.

Yet they were both some of the fattest people Tyren had ever had the displeasure of seeing and knowing.

He kept thinking of his times as a boy, and the gradual change to the sullen, lonely man that he was now.

The only thing that provided even a sliver of interest and curiosity was the Targaryen monarch. Her striking figure still bewitched him, no matter how hard he tried not to think about her.

But it also could not contain the questions that pressed against his calm, demeanor, threatening to let go of his fears and anxiety.

Why had she let him live? Why had she even bothered with speaking with someone so below her station? He could not known.

And his only chance to know would come later. Tyren would have to resign himself to continue living in his present conditions.

While it was certainly far away from the ways that he could have been treated as a prisoner of war, he was not exactly comfortable: his back ached terribly, no matter how much he shifted his position while sitting. His healing ribs would sometimes flare with pain without notice, creating instances of a truly agonizing experience. That was why he tried his best not to move too much, or too quickly.

With a sigh, he willed himself to sleep, hoping to finally achieve his goal. The loud noises a few hundred feet away from him caused his emerald eyes to open and look as one of the dragons, the silver colored one, rise up into the star filled sky. That was... the mount of the conqueror that had spoken to him.

It seemed again that his thoughts would not be left alone by the enigmatic figure of the queen. But the sky, Gods what a difference it was now compared to the previous day: the high trails of smoke had disappeared, as most of the fires had withered and perished after having consumed everything in its path.

He could see the stars, or most of them. Tyren sighed... and he could not help himself from wishing to emulate those bright dots. They were free from all of this tragedy, and war... untainted by the blood that flowed freely among the fields of the valley, coating it in red.

It was then that he felt a particularly cold gust of wind pass over him, brushing against his neck. Tyren pulled the coat tighter around him. Now, it did not seem to have the same heat as from before. His teeth began to chatter involuntarily, and before he knew it, he was back on his feet, taking slow, measured steps towards the front of the cage that was closer to the burning wood.

He settled against the bard of his "room" and felt some of the heat wash over a part of his body. But it wasn't enough: the stark contrast between warm and cold created an uncomfortable feeling, so much that he couldn't stop himself from chattering again.

That drew the attention of the guard, the same one who had given him the coat. The the fair skinned man looked at the shivering captive with contempt, before grabbing a bowl and settling it in front of the cage, adding some pieces of dry wood in it.

He brought forth some of the fire with a torch and lit the dry leaves. Tyren sighed in relief at the newly added wave of warmth; he held his hands out, hoping to keep them pleasantly tempered.

His shaking ceased after some time, as did his chattering teeth.

"Thank you..." he silently spoke to the guard, who turned to look at him: "What?" "Thank you for providing the heat. I feel much better now that you have sparked the flames."

"We are not monsters." "And yet your king had no problem putting thousands of my fellow Westermen to torch. Dying from a fire is certainly a worse fate than having a blade slice your throat open." Tyren commented.

"This is war... if King Loren and Mern had not taken arms, but bent the knee to King Aegon then this massacre would not have been needed." he answered.

"In truth, I cannot fault your king... considering the fact that the Lannisters wouldn't bow to the dragon." the guard looked at him curiously, and Tyren could not know what it was that he was thinking, given that his helm covered his face with a mask.

"He is now your king as well." he spoke calmly.

"You do not seem to be enraged at the thought of having your lands sullied by cursed foreigners. How come why?" Hill grunted, shifting again, "Does it really matter?" "No... I suppose not."

"But surely," the man continued, "You must be at least concerned of the fact that King Aegon will purge the Faith of the Seven and put their septs to the torch; does that not worry you?" Tyren closed his eyes, "The Seven have never done anything for me... nor have they even given me a sign that they could hear my prayers." "Why did you pray?"

The tired lad did not answer initially, he instead opted on what to say, until he decided to speak his mind: "A family, most of all." "You are an orphan?"

Tyren closed prepared himself for the jeer that was bound to escape the man's lips, "No, I am something far more worse than that. I am a bastard." he said those words silently, already laying against the bars of the cage, shielding himself from the onslaught of insults and curses that would be thrown away.

"I see." the wounded lion offered the Crownman a confused look: "Are you not going to insult me?" "What good would that do?"

"You do not despise men like me?" "For simply being born on the wrong side of the sheets? Gods, no. The Valyrian teachings do not condemn such children. It would be stupid to held them accountable for the actions of the parents."

"That already seems like a more sensible way of thinking that what the Faith preaches... what is your name? I am curious to know who my warden is." "Virys Sapner." it was a particularly unusual name that he had.

"Hmm. Tyren Hill... did your parents adore the Freehold's descendants enough to name you in their likeness?" "No, they too have Valyrian names as well." "So it is a tradition." "We address our bloodline that derives from the dragonlords." Tyren chuckled, a smile displayed on his mouth, "I would dare to say that you have silver colored hair, and purple colored eyes?"

Virys turned towards him for a moment and raised his hands up to his face, sliding the protective piece of gear off his head, exposing a small jungle of white silk, bundled in a series of short braids. Tyren's eyes widened, and he got up, looking at him almost fearfully: "You are one then? You are one of the Targaryens? Who are you? A cousin to the royals? A nephew?" his questions kept on adding.

"Have no fear, I am not noble of lineage. And no, I am not related in anyway to the true dragons." but that did not answer Tyren's haunting doubts, "But how...? Why do you have the infamous traits of Old Valyria?" "Like I said, we share the blood of the dragon."

Just then, another person arrived, four, actually. These men wore the Targaryen colors as well, though their armor was heavier than Virys', bulkier as well and yet that did not seem to impede their movements even marginally.

"You are Tyren Hill?" the man looked at him wearily, not trusting their intentions, "Why are you looking for him?"

Unexpectedly, they removed the lock and pulled him out of the cage, making him yelp as his ribs were none too gently agitated, a condition which made him stumble, and, had it not been for the strong grip of his shoulder, nearly fall.

"What do you want?" "You must come with us." was their order as two of them settled in front of him and began to march forward. The shieldman at his back pushed him to walk, and so Tyren did, twisting his head around to watch as Virys held his gaze, he too not knowing what was happening.

Soon, he could not see him anymore, as he was forced to cross over a series of wooden fence and into the camp proper.

There were thousands of tents, and he passed through rows and rows of them to the point that they all seemed to blend in; that was until he reached the Targaryen's bannermen: "He had been astounded to see the larger tents of the regular soldiers, and what shocked him even more was the fact that all of the warriors he had seen wore full plate and mail armor, and they all had either a platinum blond or white hair, accompanied by a light shade of purple in their eyes.

Virys'words now began to make more sense, but Tyren still could not believe what it was that he was seeing: the Targaryens must have accumulated the secrets and knowledge of the freehold, for he saw stonemasons use fire to bend and twist rock into a black substance, already building on top of the base of support for a proper keep.

Soldiers were either sparring, guarding or simply talking to one another, but they were all well trained: their movements and tense limbs made him understand that.

Tyren knew for a fact that the conqueror's army must not have arrived earlier than three days ago, yet to see how much they had already built, in so little time... he felt amazed at how they could create such fine works... and it also scared him in a equal measure.

He even spotted women in chainmail as well, and highborn bastard could nothelp but wonder of how truly foreign these Valyrians were to Westerosi culture.

Then, one of the three dragons flew above then, causing the flames to flicker and the winds to rustle. These strange people raised their weapons and cheered, as Tyren crouched down at the sudden appearance of the great creature.

The men accompanying him laughed at his reaction, but he cared not for his pride in that moment: he had to understand why it was that they had brought him here, why so close to the monarchs.

He was but a bastard... a bastard to house Lannister yes, but a bastard nonetheless. King Loren's wife came before him as heir to the Rock, and the vassal houses would not stand for him, even if he was announced as the next lord of the Westerlands. It would create another bloody conflict.

And his name would be remembered with hatred and despise, to be forever hailed as an unjust, jumped up son of a whore that used his foul and nefarious ways to strive higher than what his position allowed.

He was led to one of the tents, and when entering, was surprised to find the ground littered with fine pelts and carpets of red and black adorned the corners of the posts that held up the pavilion.

A couple of beautiful maids were pouring hot water in the bronze tub that was placed in the center of the enclosed space.

Tyren spotted a couple bars of soap, and even a handful of glass bottles that contained different oils with different aromas. A set of clothes was placed on a chair nearby, composed of a mainly black layer decorated with red stripes; further more around them was a second, even smaller set of lines in gold. No doubt it was a means to show his affiliation with the house of the lion, and perhaps it was also done so to mock King Loren and the Westerlands further of their defeat.

Only one guard remained, and he unshackled the binds to his hands, holding them under his arm. Tyren stared at the water, then at the solemn women and finally to the silent guard.

"You are meant to bathe. Give the maids your clothes and allow them to cleanse you."

Hill's eyebrow twitched with irritation: "Do you mean to say that I am incapable of washing myself?" "Let the maids do their duty." he fully turned to stare at him, "I am not a simpleton. I will bathe alone in my own company."

"You need will need their help to change the bandages." "I know how to do that, their presence, and yours, are unnecessary and unwelcome. Have pity on a prisoner of war and let him keep his dignity." he kept voicing his resistance in their little verbal spar, and it was easily noticeable to make out his rising frustration.

The guard did not react to his words, but from the slits in the helmet, he could see that his violet eyes narrowed, "You wish for me to leave so that you may escape." he finally stated, almost emitting a sound of triumph.

"And pray to tell, why would I do that?" Tyren crossed his arms, his tone low and collected, as he tried not to let his emotions get the better of him. Appearance was, after all, everything in a clash of words.

"Is it not obvious enough? You want me and the two servants over there to leave so that you may fled away from your captivity. Are you treating me like a simpleton now?" he challenged him.

"No, but you are acting like one." "How so?" the other kept his hand over the hilt of his longsword, a detail that Tyren was quick to notice with the tail of his eye.

"First, it would illogical to attempt such an escape. Let us imagine: even if I do somehow leave this tent without you noticing me, what then? I am sure that your comrades are still around here, somewhere close most likely. And that is without counting all of the shield, sword and spearman that are all present in this war camp. Tell me how it is that I can escape without alerting not a soul? Your horses are surely being tended to by squires and stable boys alike. And I am sure that there are scouts pillaging through the nearby forests." he paused, his breath a little worn out after speaking the entire charade.

"Do you understand now that I do not have even a glimmer of possibility to run off away from this forsaken tent?" the guard stepped back, slowly realizing his point of view.

"Very well. You two leave. You have convinced me Westerman, but know this," he stepped forward, the blade sliding out of the scabbard by a small amount, "If you try anything, I will not hesitate to maim you." "I thought so." he replied, keeping his chin held up and his back straight, appearing every inch like a Lannister of the Rock would be.

"Now leave." he spat at him, leaning so that he could physiologically push the Targaryen loyalist away from him. The man left soon after, and only the. did Tyren breath out through his nose, his annoyance fading away.

Sighing, he began to remove his coat first, and then the doublet. It was not very easy, and he had to perform the action much slower than how he desired, but it was to not aggravate his broken bones.

After that, he quickly lowered himself in the tub, a groan of content escaping his throat as the water enveloped his legs and waist.

"Good Gods... it has been far too long." it was the truth: he could smell his own sweat after not bathing for the past fortnight or so. The grime and dust that was on his skin was washed away as he gently splashed the clear liquid over his muscles and head.

Thankfully, a small bucket was placed to his left, and he used that to properly clean his mop of brown strands. The oils helped give it a fragrant smell, which was pleasing to the nose, and the scented soap followed next, which he used over the rest of his being.

Naturally, he had to avoid the part of his torso that was still recovering after the battle. The maester had said that he would have to take special care of his ribs for another two moons; an agonizingly long time to have to not exceed himself and train.

While Tyren enjoyed reading a good book every now and then, he was in no way a scholar, much least a maester in training. Eventually, he would have to appease the desire to move, to do something; so he simply hoped to find enough things to work on or to keep him busy. Even managing coin and the supplies of a small town would have done well.

But he doubted that he would ever be gifted the chance to try his hand at such a position: the only time that he did was with Maester Hugar... those had been meticulously crafted scenarios, meant to test and sharpen his skills in the subject of economics. “Tyren, my boy, you have surpassed all of my expectations, well done my student.” those had been the kindest word anyone had ever directed to him. Thinking about that particular memory always brought a small amount of content to him, even on the days which he was treated the worst.

He missed the wide old maester. Who knew if he was still alive? Hugar had once confessed to him that he was sick and dying. Tyren remembered that he had quietly wept in the privacy of his chambers. The boy of one and ten namedays had been afraid of losing the only figure that provided even a slimmer of affection to him.

And then, he had been forbidden from seeing him again. After that, Tyren had tried to complete his formal education by borrowing books from one of the prestigious libraries present in Lannisport, and while he was slowly able to understand more and more concepts regarding counts and numbers, he knew that he would never be capable of reaching the completion of the lessons that was expected of every true highborn.

He did not dwell on those thoughts by dressing his smallclothes. Then, the flap to the tent was opened, and the guard appeared from it: “Good. You shall sleep here from now on, you will find all the proper arrangements in those chests to the side. I will wake you on the morrow.”

Hill looked at him with respite, “What is to happen of me?” the other barked a laugh: “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you dog.” “Are you too arrogant dragonspawn? Do you fear that another scorching mountain will burn off your wings?” he responded with sarcasm.

The guard did not reply, but let out something akin to a growl. “Mind your tone prisoner. There will be others far less tolerant than I concerning your colorful and crude vocabulary. Now sleep while you can, for you won’t get another chance too until nighttime comes once more.”

Tyren walked over and retrieved a sizable quantityof blankets and a single pillow. He nested himself on the ground, trying to replicate the mattress of a proper bed.

It was now, that sleep consumed him at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can probably tell, things are quite different here in this world. The discussions and such are hints of what truly transpired in the age before the conquest. Please comment, and let me know what you think of the story so far, if the characters are written well enough and such. Thanks for reading.


	3. Swords and Daggers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Targaryen conquerors and the captured Lannister low born properly meet as a dragon plays with her prey an another ushers their fiery love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I wrote this chapter in two days as well, so this too might contain some mistakes.

**Tyren Hill III**

With a gasp, Tyren got up from his laying position, the jolt caused his ribs to sting which mildly muffled his shout of fear.

The bastard panted, his pupils wide and trembling: he could still feel the flames licking at his skin, and how it tore through his ligaments and bones, leaving nothing but charred remains.

Tyren was covered in sweat, as he caught his breath his heart was beating wildly, and he could hear it pulse in his ears.

The man turned just in time to empty his stomach, retching out all of the water and bread that he had eaten in the last day or so, coming out in the form if a disgusting, yellow and foul smelling paste-like liquid. His gagging made his eyes tear up, as his throat compressed uncomfortably in an effort to remove whatever else was left in his guts.

Tyren coughed viciously, still gasping for air as he held himself by the arms, tremors cursing his body to a quivering mess.

A lone tear fell from his green cut gems, and Tyren collapsed backwards, sitting on his haunches as he let out a quiet sob. He tried to calm himself, but the visions, those horrible visions wouldn't leave him.  
The nightmare that had consumed his conscious ravaged his mental fortitude, clawing at it while chipping the stone away.

_He... he lived that moment again... from the massacre, except that this time, he had been in Lannisport, on one of the main streets... he had seen the buildings on fire... the city was in complete and utter disarray as people ran away, screaming in fear and horror as the sky turned black with the ashes of the flames._

_Babes at the breast wailed, children cried in panic as they held on to their parents; the edifices that were bathed in the flames crumbled and fell, crushing the innocent bystanders in less than the blink of an eye. There were no garrison guard, no knights to help the poor, suffering populace. The bells of Lancel the Golden's sept kept sounding, but it did nothing wash out the flames and prevent their expansions across the tile rooftops of the populous city._

_Not even the ships of the bay were spared as a dark creature swept over them an engulfed the crews with a blazing streak of silver colored fire._  
_The tall walls that surrounded the city were nearly eighty feet in height, they had defended the capital of the Westerlands for eons, and yet when the realm began to shake, and the earth rupture in two halves, they crumbled as if made of simple paper._

_But it was the deathly roar, that made him stop in his tracks: Tyren had looked over towards the mountain that was the Rock, he looked at it with fear, sensing a sinister threat emanate from the great castle. Then, a crackle of thunder exposed the dragon that laid on top of the shattered towers and the holdfasts. The beast was massive, and its titanic wings covered the valley beneath the tall formation of rocky hills, and the sky bleed red, as fire rained from the clouds, causing more havoc and claiming more lives._

_The wrath of Valyria descend upon Lannisport, until Tyren turned around to see the dragon, its terrifying gaze on him as he saw its mouth turn red, and a spew flames at him, over all of him staring him mercilessly with its glowing orange eyes._

Tyren slowed his rapid breaths, and rise and fall of his chest thankfully slowed. "It was not real... it was only in my mind..." he spoke quietly, trying to find comfort in his own words.

After some time, he came to realize that he would need to eventually get up. He did not know how early it was, but he decided on dressing anyways.   
The silk of the cloths felt comfortable enough as to not hug his frame too tightly, and he noticed that the sleeves of the doublet were slightly larger than his arms, so they sagged a little. It was ignorable though, and it wouldn't cause him any discomfort, save for maybe a couple of inconveniences.

The bastard heard the rustling noises from the front of the tent, and saw that the guard who had brought him there had returned.  
"You are already prepared then? Good, this will take less time than what I was expecting. Come, the King wants to speak to you." he blanched in surprise, shock showing on his features: "What? King Aegon? The dragon?"

"Yes, and it would be best not to keep him waiting, so come." he grasped his shoulder and tugged him along, out in the morning daylight. The sun was still not yet high in the sky, and the clouds were still colored a shade of dark blue.

The inhabitants of the camp were waking up, and he saw many men and women come out of their tents, some still wearing their simple gowns and tunics, not yet dressed in their impeccable plated, shining steel.   
Another three Targaryen men came to stand around him, but these seemed to be higher ranked, for their sets of armor looked to be more beautifully crafted and structured: he did not miss the small dark ripples that curved around some sections of the pauldrons, breastplates and grieves. Additionally, they also bore a flowing white cape at their backs, but were still short enough as to not get tangled with their feet.

They did not talk to him, and Tyren felt his anxiety grow with each step that he took, walking deeper and deeper into the conqueror's nest, until finally, he was brought to the royal tent. Not even a sennight ago, he had charged and stood against the dragon with his comrades, and now, he entered their layer alone and unarmed, with no way of defending himself.

The two warriors that stood outside of the tent's opening let one of their own pass in first, most likely to announce Tyren's arrival.  
Then, the flap was pushed aside by the guard, who tilted his head, telling him to go inside.

The wounded man schooled his expression and let his hands fall loosely to the side, clenching and unclenching his fingers.   
He stepped forward, and was finally in the presence of the dragons.

His eyes first landed on the man sitting on the chair behind the large oak desk. He came to the conclusion that that must have been Aegon, given that the stories about him were true: his face was handsome and held elegance that no mortal was allowed to have. He was well built and healthy, Tyren could tell that even if he was wearing his Valyrian steel armor. The circlet of rubies, the crown of the conqueror adorned his head. In essence, he was the true image of a king, like the ones described in the bard's songs and ballads; and he was the dragon incarnate, such his violet eyes held an unwavering flame in them, that refused to extinguished, almost as if defying the Old and New Gods.

Besides him, was a slender, lithe woman, she too adorned in a special suit of the mythical metal. But contrary to her brother, this Targaryen did not appear as imposing or stern: her hair was worn freely and loose, creating an alluring visage to any that dared to cast a glance; but from the way that she stood on her feet, and the small smile that tugged at one edge of her lips hid a mischievous nature, one that was derived from the beauty that she was blessed him. The woman could be none other than Rhaenys Targaryen.

And then, to the right of the pair was the final member of the powerful Valyrian house: Visenya.

Tyren nearly stopped when he looked at her, for he would have been damned if he did not: like the other day, she was still adorned in that marvelous armor of hers, and that only served to sharpen her piercing gaze.  
Once more, those hauntingly ethereal violet eyes dragged him into an endless sea of amazement; but the dragon's blood was strong in her, for while her brother tempered it and held it back, the eldest of the Targaryen conquerors made no such effort: the fire that raged behind those crystals made the one he had seen in his nightmares seem time by comparison.

While her sister was clad and sculpted with smooth curves and lineaments akin to those of marble statues, the dragonrider was forged with the durability of their namesake's steel, all hard edges ready to cut, maim and slaughter any if need be at a moment's notice.   
She was the pure incarnation of the Valyrians of old: by the way that she carried herself, and the aura of power and supremacy that clung to her like a moth did to a light.

Unmovable, unchangeable and indomitable, those were the words that best described her, and even then those laudable adjectives could not give her the recognition and awe that her figure demanded.  
Her mere presence was enough to make feel weary, almost afraid. A dragon was the apex predator, beating out even the mighty lion, and here it was no different.

It was at that moment that he realized that it wasn't only her ruthless and authoritative charisma that sparked so much fear in the hearts of enemies and allies alike: it was her physical attributes as well.  
Tyren had a tall stature, a common trait in the Lannister line, and he was also blessed with a lean musculature, but now, standing here in this room with the representatives of Valyria's last line, he noticed that she was nearly as tall as him, matching him perfectly in that category.

That made her seem all the more threatening and powerful... and even though it was fire that ran through her veins, she very much exuded a glacial demeanor.

Unsure of what to do, and knowing that he was in the presence of people who were much higher above his own station; Tyren bent his knees and bowed.

"Your graces." he addressed them, keeping his voice as neutral and as unchallenging as possible. He was at their complete and utter mercy... Hill knew very well that it would take less than a single misspelled word to have him sentenced and tried to the most vile and horrendous of torments. He could not do anything but pray that that wouldn't be his fate.

"You are Tyren, yes?" he remained quiet for a moment, carefully deciding which answers to give in the hopes of not displeasing the Targaryen monarch: "Aye, I am Tyren Hill your grace. I... a lowborn of my standing is not worthy of sharing the same space, and breathe the same air as you. I am honored to even glimpse at you."

Then, the she-dragon said something, a phrase perhaps, in her mother tongue: "Ziry iksos zirȳla." he searched through the depths of his memories to remember the scarce lessons that Maester Hugar had given him on the language of the dragons, and he could only recognize _zirȳla,_ which translated to him in the Common Westerosi tongue.

He assumed that they were speaking of him, he tried to listen more of the mysterious and strange words that they kept using, but it proved too difficult a task to understand.  
"You may rise Westerman." King Aegon ordered him, and he did so as bid.

"It is custom to look at one's king when he is addressing you." Tyren raised his head, staring at the dragon's own. "Tell me, do you know why it is that you are here?" he knew what wasn't spoken: ' _Answer truthfully and honestly and you shall be spared by my mount's fire.'_

"No your grace. I do not." "You are a kinsman to Loren Lannister, is that correct?" "You have the right to it, your grace." he bowed his head once more.

"I take it that you are the son of the late Tygett then. Loren seems too pious to sire children outside of his own matrimonial bed." "He is your grace." he replied carefully and slowly, testing the waters to see if they were too hot to traverse and use.

"So you are a part of the Rock's royal family." "If you consider my sinful origins enough to justify such a statement, then yes."   
The conqueror hummed, in his hand was a small, silver colored medallion with ripples of black.

"The reason for why you were brought here, is because it concerns your uncle." Tyren grimaced at that word: _uncle,_ it seemed so foreign to him, impossible even.

"I-I doubt that my low cunning would be of any use to you, my king." Visenya stepped forward, the power of the dragons of times passed accompanying her every step. "Your faith brands us as heathens; and we differ from their radical thoughts in many ways. Bastardry means nothing to us, so do not presume to coddle or earn our good graces with flowery words and presumptuous lies."

Her taloned fingers slid to her belt and wrapped around Dark Sister's grip, and in a flash, the sword was fluidly removed from the scabbard and arched downwards to Tyren; the Valyrian steel blade let out a high pitched sound as it cut through his steel binds like a heated knife did to butter.

The conqueror trapped the lion with her gaze, like a dragon did with sheep as she sheathed the legendary longsword once more.  
Tyren let out the breath that had been stuck in his lungs; he had no visible reaction to the sudden movement, so unexpected it was that behind her, Aegon's hand darted to Blackfyre while Rhaenys took a couple of steps backwards.

Only his eyes had widened a little out of shock, a detail that would have gone unnoticed by all... but Visenya of house Targaryen was a dragon and warrior incarnate, and she made sure to frighten the younger man with her raw skill in swordsmanship. If she was pleased by his fear, she did not show it: her face remained as impassive and unreadable as the stone from which Dragonstone was built.

Tyren did not utter a noise, as he kept his lips shut, but deep inside, in the fortitude of his mind he was terrified to the speed with which she moved. She could have killed him right then and there, had she wished for it. That only served as a reminder of who was in control, and Tyren was brought back to recognizing the dragon that had brought destruction to the combined army of the Reach and Westerlands.

Rhaenys walked over to them from behind the desk. The difference in height between them was noticeable: the younger sibling barely reached up to her sister's shoulder. Even if they were to stand side to side without their armor cuirasses, he was sure that it would change nothing.

"Ziry iksos nēdenka mandia. Ao emagon nykeā." she spoke to the other member of her family, giving him a curious look.  
"As I was saying, we believe that your help would be most helpful in our hunt for Loren." Aegon walked past them, the red cape trailing behind silently.

He stopped at the nearby table, which still held a complete map of the southern portion of Westeros. There were no markers, other than small wooden figurines, meant to represent the houses of the Westerlands and Reach respectively. They were smart, and hadn't shown him anything of their strategic camps, location of the supply lines or the routes and roads that were frequently used and taken.

The man of Valyrian descent looked at him, inviting him to come stand besides him on the map. He looked at it, and saw the marked point of where they were.

"Loren is yet eluding my best trackers. I have asked the other lords for their knowledge and opinion on the matter, for it is clear that his goal is now to reach Casterly Rock and stay there." Tyren nodded in understanding, looking over at the castle from which the Lannisters ruled the rest of the rich lands.

"It would be impossible to besiege it your graces: the Rock has vast reserves of food storages. If need be, they could last for up to a couple of years. And you would necessitate the use of a fleet to blockade the lower caverns of it." Rhaneys slid over as well, "Does he noted fear our dragons' flames?"

"Your grace, while I was not present to see the burning of Harrenhall, I doubt that your mounts could do the same with Casterly Rock: it is a fortress built into the mountain. And it is self autonomous; the gold and silver mines have yet to run dry, even after thousands of years..."

Aegon sighed, "The problem is that as long as he lives, there will be those who will back them. I imagine that Lannisport will keep harassing and pestering our troops should we occupy it." "That is why we must capture the fleeing lion before he can return to his ancestral seat." Visenya reaffirmed as she stood next to Tyren... at a closer distance than what would be considered appropriate; but he knew that it was partly done to unsettle him.

"Lord Lorgar Reyne has insisted that Loren shall attempt to cross at the Golden Tooth, to then reach Lannisport and his keep." Tyren snorted: "Loren would be a fool to do that; he will only be delayed and possibly stopped and apprehended by the houses that have bent the knee to you."

He pointed to the south: "Instead, he will take the longer route and pass by Cornfield keep, perhaps even Silverhall, to then ride north along the Sea Road." he trailed his finger over the drawn way.

"There are few holdfasts and coastal towns along it, so he will not be delayed. Loren will be desperate enough to ride during both night and day... he is playing his strategy defensively." he murmured.  
"So that is my opinion, your graces." Rhaenys stared at the trail, and he could see her deeply immersed in her thoughts, as was her betrothed.

"It will be of great use to us. Thank you Tyren." he bowed his head at them. "When Loren will be executed, all opposition will die with him. Even his wife Laurane will have the gates opened to your arrival, your grace. Then you will be able to install a new, loyal house to the seat of the Westerlands." it was only logical that such an action would follow: to leave one of their most fearsome adversaries alive would be detrimental to them, especially for future generations to come.

"House Lannister will retain their castle." Visenya spoke, and her answer surprised him a lot. "You will be placed as the new lord paramount." Tyren whirled around to look at her, his mind drilling for several seconds.

"I beg you p-pardon your grace?" "You will obtain the title of Lord of the Rock." Rhaenys spoke calmly.

The high born bastard got down to his knees once more, "My king, queens... you cannot possibly mean that the seat will pass onto me... Loren's cousins would come first in line of succession and- "I have already told you that your status means nothing compared to your worth." Vaghar's rider said, crossing her arms over her Valyrian steel scaled breastplate.

"Tyren of Lannisport, should you prove your worth in the following months and wars, then you will be legitimized by my hand and adopt the name Lannister. You will then be first in line to take the Rock." Aegon stated neutrally, though he could sense the mistrust, and Hill understood why: he was still not loyal to them... and he would have to show it to fall in their trust.

"You know very well what will happen should you do anything to betray us." he darkly stated, "Of course your grace."

His mind was spinning, he could not believe all that was happening right now; this was not reality... some foul magic and trickery was causing him to see and live false moments.  
And yet it was true: all of it was.

"In the time which you will travel the Seven Kingdoms with us, to finally join the North and Dorne at last; we will send forth a steward from one of the houses to make sure that lady Laurane heeds our rule and remains loyal to my crown. Do you have any advice on which lords to assign this task?" Aegon added, putting forth another troubling matter.

"All of them will do. But I would ask that you avoid giving the position to Lorgar Reyne." "Why?" was the king's bride's curious question.  
"Your grace, historically, both houses have clashed for dominion over the Westerlands. The Reynes are the most powerful bannermen the Lannisters can call to arms... they are nearly as rich, but their relationship is one that is constantly on the brink of turning hostile. Lord Lorgar would try to exploit this opportunity to his advantage... and he would actively work so that his own house would be put as the masters of Casterly Rock." he explained to her.  
"And since we are in the matter, I would advise you avoid house Tarbeck as well... they too have sided many times with the Reynes in an effort to seize more riches and power."

The dragonrider looked at the sigils of the two mentioned houses, understanding Tyren's hesitations and advice: "Very well, your words will be once more headed."

"And finally, you will take my hand in marriage." Visenya concluded, and Tyren's world was destroyed once more.

"I-I... wh-wh... this..." he stuttered, truly lost and incapable of doing anything to calm his racing nerves. "I will command the Rock, and thus the rest of the noble houses. Together, we will give light to a new minor branch of house Targaryen. You will be bound by blood with the king." Tyren openly gaped at her, still struggling to comprehend what she was telling him.

There was no gentleness in her statement, and it was imperative; it did not allow space for discussion or change.   
Tyren swallowed thickly, his chest felt as if it was being pushed down upon, constricting his breath and making him feel light... he had to get out of that space, he needed to be alone...

"Your graces, forgive me for my ill manners but I must beg you to dismiss me at once... please, I implore you..." he spoke, bowing his head. He could not hide his anxiety anymore... it was too much... he could not control his emotions that ran rampart over his senses.

"You may go." Aegon conceded him that mercy at least, and with another bow, he nearly fled from the large, ornate tent, once again flanked by the numerous guards.

**Visenya Targaryen III**

The boy's reaction confused her, and for once, Rhaenys was able to notice that confusion: "Vis, do not be surprised that he acted the way he did: you have broken his internal stability."

She cast an impassive glare towards her: "I did not do such a thing." Aegon turned to her as well, "Rhae is right. Now wasn't the best of times to announce it to him."

"He will understand soon; the stain of being a bastard will no longer curse him." "Vis, you still do not understand: this is not a battle, you are not supposed to approach it like a battle; not so formally at least."

"I know very well that this is not a conflict solved by sword and armor, but my duty will be carried out." "Yes and I do not doubt that; but you cannot approach him like this, the poor man has already had all of his beliefs be changed and flipped in less than an hour. If you do not form a genuine, true and honest bond... then you will never learn to love each other."

Visenya began to walk away, hand still on the Valyrian steel blade, "Many lords and ladies do not marry out of love. My own union will not be anymore different, what matters is the fruition of our house. Not a having my husband's affection will only be a minor setback."

She walked out the tent and nearly everyone stopped at her powerful and confident passage. The soldiers bowed to her, but she did not give them a look.

Vaghar, ever so often could sense her will and wishes, so she quickly landed in the clearing that was big enough for her massive size. She was beginning to rival Balerion in that regard, and perhaps, one day, she would grow even larger than him.

The warrior gave her loyal friend a soothing rub along the ridges of snout, knowing exactly where to scratch her. She kept stroking her silver scales as the dragon lightly butted her massive head against her rider's body.   
There was no need to talk with Vhagar, she already knew how to help her and calm her thoughts.  
Soon, she was properly sitting on her saddle, and spoke: "Sovegon." and the dragon obeyed, rising high above all.

Truthfully, she had not expected for this... _lion..._ to fluster and fall over himself at the opportunity of rising to such a convenient and powerful position. He had seemed afraid, as if wanting to deny such a thing, while other men might have well danced naked in the fields of flower out of pure joy and glee.

But not Tyren Hill; he was an... interesting character.

Visenya could not yet make out if he would be confident in the matters of managing the castle or the vassal houses of the Westerlands as a whole, but should he prove incapable, then it would not change much.  
If anything, he would be too submissive to fight back against her rules and decisions, and perhaps she could also manipulate him with enough effort.

"But he does have courage." she had to admit that he was braver than most men she had met: even high lords tended to cower beneath her gaze, but he still stood against it, and it was evident that he was very good at keeping his fear and nerves in line.

Yes, now that she thought about it some more, Rhaenys' words began to make more sense. But love did not matter in this realm, there were only so few rare cases: Aegon and Rhaenys were one such example... and while she was glad that the two would be happily wed, she could not deny that she did not share the same affection that her sister did to her brother.

Visenya had been grateful for breaking the betrothal between her and Aegon; once he had realized that the two were madly in love with each other, he had called her to her solar to ask her about his decision.

_"You are not affected by the knowledge that you will not be queen?" Aerion Targaryen, lord of Dragonstone asked his eldest offspring, his eyes gentle and inviting from were he sat._

_"No father. It is best this way. Rhaenys will have no such problems securing many heirs and spares for our house. It will not take long for that to happen."_

_The middle aged man steepled his fingers, a small smile present on his clean shaven face: "I remember when I discovered of the two's affections for each other a moon ago... they had been careful, even with all of the Moon Tea that Rhae would sneakily steal from the maester's chambers." he chuckled a little looking at the ruby that adorned his index finger._  
_"She would say that it was to gather more books and knowledge of the dragons; but we both know that to be a false claim." he laughed once more, "Out of the three, you my dear, were always the one who held the most thirst for our ancestor's glorious past."_

_Visenya bowed her head, "To better serve our legacy father. Mine and Aegon's marriage wouldn't have been a fruitful one, even if we only couple for the sake of birthing the new generation of dragonriders."_  
_Aerion looked at her, a determined glare, the one that was common across all members of house Targaryen, was kept on his features._  
_"I will find you a suitable husband Visenya. By all of the gods, and our blood, I promise you that I shall see it done. You will marry only the best that this realm has to offer."_

_But the woman that was a queen in all but name, stopped his speech, "Father, I only desire a match that will bring the most advantage to our family. My happiness is secondary compared to the duty that I carry for our line."_

_Her sire gave her an uncertain look of questioning, "My dear Vis, a lone Targaryen in the world is a terrible thing; you must not give up your joy to our house if it would mean a lifetime of lonesomeness."_

_But the daughter of Valyria could not be challenged: "I do so that our children, and their children after can live in an empire the likes of which rival the old Freehold. My efforts will be to achieve that goal. Our fire and blood will command these petulant kingdoms and weak lords, for we are the last dragons in this world."_

_She looked out of the colored glass of her father's window, towards the east, towards their homeland: "And maybe we will finally be able to to reclaim all that was taken from us." her voice was distant, as was her mind._  
_To rediscover all of the secrets and arcane magic that the Valyrians of times past used... there would be no greater boon than that. The dragons would rebuild the center of knowledge and arts of the known world._

_Even then, those arrogant maesters at the Citadel in Oldtown would be frothing at the mouth to obtain even a small quantity of those records._

That had been three years ago, a few days before Aegon's decision to conqueror Westeros in its entirety. The lords of what was then called the Dragonlands reunited on the island fortress to swear allegiance and fealty once more, assembling a host of nearly thirty thousand strong.

And thus, three years later, they had arrived at this point with their conquest.

Visenya let Vhagar have some fun in the clouds, by flying between them and rolling here and there... it was truly a breathtaking site, and the company of the bonded pair served to calm them both and simply escape the harsh reality that governed this realm.

"Tegon konīr." she gently spoke to the dragon, rubbing a hand over the ridges and hard spikes of her crest.   
They landed at the edge of the camp, and a light escort of cavalry quickly came to guard her. Of course, these were the recruits of her project, and at the moment, she was satisfied with their readiness and immediate response.

Sliding off Vhagar's saddle, she let the great dragon go hunt.   
Silently, she grabbed a sword from one of the soldier's waist along with the belt, and the man of Valyrian descent didn't even protest, which she approved of.   
"I want you to go retrieve Tyren Hill and bring him to me. As for the rest of you, follow wherever I go." she mounted a horse and began to ride away from the field, and to one of the bordering forests, stopping near a gentle stream of water.

The elite warriors gave her the peace and quiet that she desired, and also kept scouting around the area to keep any potential onlookers away, but the tall trees already proved a good enough deterrent.

Nearly ten minutes later, she heard the hooves of a horse arrive at the small patch of land. Visenya did not turn around, not yet at least; she carefully listened as a pair of footsteps softly came closer to her, stopping a few feet behind her.

"Your grace, you called for me?" the dragonrider finally took her eyes off the clear blue water, standing up to see that the Lannister bastard was bowing.

"Rise." the lean man did as she commanded, she deliberately walked closer to him with a slow pace; she wanted to test this swordsmen.   
His green eyes met with hers, and they did not look away.

From her side, Visenya grasped the handle of his dagger, and presented him with the belt. "Put it on." he did that as well, sliding it around his stomach and tightening the clasps so that it wouldn't come undone; then, she presented him with the short blade. "This is rightfully yours."

The young Westerman cautiously took it from her gauntleted hand, and placed it in one of the belt's sheaths. Internally, the dragoness smirked: it seemed that the boy was smarter than what he led on. This was a small test on her part, and was satisfied with how he carried himself.

Then, she walked back to the log on which she had been sitting, and grabbed the sword, handing him that as well. After taking a few steps away from Tyren, she unsheathed Dark Sister, and held the blade parallel to her arms: "Let us spar." she commanded him, as the her focus settled solely on Tyren.

The boy looked unsure, and with good reason: she was wearing her Valyrian steel suit and was armed with a longsword of the same metal, while he ha nothing of that sort; she was strong and well rested, while he was still weak from the healing wound of his broken ribs.

But then, his gaze hardened as well with determination, and he positioned the dragon steel sword in front of him.  
For a couple of moments, they stood still, and then in the next instant, Visenya was upon him, bearing down Dark Sister in a diagonal strike.  
Tyren blocked it, although he staggered backwards, faltering slightly.

Again, she came at him, this time with a thunderous slash from the side, followed then by an overheard attack. Hill blocked them, but it was clear that he was struggling to keep up with the strength of her blows.

Even if he was hurt, Visenya was still disappointed by his performance: they had barely started, and yet he was already panting and sweating. Maybe it was his weakness that triggered this anger in her... this almost predatory lust to finish off her prey, so she dashed in, overwhelming him with a flurry of blows, until she swung at him, intending to knock the sword of the hand, but out of nowhere, he countered with a riposte and she darted backwards.

Tyren looked at her with serious glare, his face devoid of any emotions. He had purposefully given her the he assumption of having the upper hand by making his movements slower, and he had nearly caught her with the sudden strike.

It seemed as if the lion had claws, and Visenya's lips twitched upwards, she beckoned him forward, and he did not need any further instruction.

The younger man responded to her attacks with his own, and his defense was much better than before: for one, he kept presenting his left side, keeping the wounded half far away from the reach of her arm.  
The young lion stabbed at her abdomen, and when she directed the blow elsewhere, he moved inwards and pressed her with a horizontal swipe of the sword.

Loren Lannister's kinsman had finally let go of his meekness and was treating her seriously like a warrior as if this was a real and proper battle, and not just some spar.

Visenya begrudgingly admitted that he had a certain talent to let her in on overextending herself, leaving her open to counters and pokes with the tip of his blade.

But in the end, she was still the better sword, and her skill along with her stamina proved too much for the boy, no... man to handle.   
Her blood sang with fire and power as she mirrored one of his earlier tricks and let him wrongly leave himself unprotected: she struck his blade with enough force to the upper half of it to snap it off from the rest of the body, and send his arms flying off to his right, and viciously struck his bandaged side with the the flat edge of Dark Sister.

Tyren grunted in muffled pain and fell backwards, he went to get up but the Targaryen knocked the longsword out his grip with a kick of her armored boot; then, she placed her other foot on his unharmed shoulder and let her weight push him down as she pointed the deadly weapon to his throat.

"Do you submit?" surprisingly, there was something else in her stern voice; respect. The green eyed lad quietly spoke, still looking at her violet gems: "I do your grace... the day is yours." maybe it was the dragon in her that made his submission seem all the more satisfying; so she took pleasure in holding him there at her mercy for a moment longer before taking the blade away and stepping off his chest.

She watched as he got back up, holding a hand to his torso, Visenya doubted that his ribs were broken again, as she made sure not to apply to much force to the finishing blow.

He bowed to her once more, and she sheathed the sword back in its scabbard. Tyren was still panting, and undoubtedly tired; unexpectedly, she took out her flask of water and held it up to his lips, startling him. "Drink." she ordered, and the man hesitantly sated his thirst.

The blood of Old Valyria walked away to the horse that she had ridden, giving him a final instruction: "Visit one of the healers, and rest."

The dragonlord did not turn back once as she rode back to the camp.

**Aegon Targaryen I**

"Mmm... Rhae, I thought that you had gone to fly on Meraxes once more." the dragon king whispered as his lover passionately undressed him of his shirt and passionately began to bite his neck.

"Are you so eager to see me off?" she teased him as her delicate hand slid under his waistband and into his smallclothes, while her other rubbed his white hair, "Of course not, I would never want that." he hastily replied as he pushed her on the bed of their tent, hungrily kissing her lips as his own hands worked on opening her gown.

He was so grateful that they both weren't wearing armor right now. "I have ordered," he said between kisses, "The lords to hunt," he groaned as Rhaenys dug her nails in the naked flesh of his back, "Loren Lannister on the trail that his nephew said he would take."

Aegon's sister sighed against his mouth: "Do not think of that lion my love... you have a dragon to worry about now."

"Yes, my queen."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, I hope that this chapter was to your liking, and I hope that you are interested with the way that things are going. I ask you to please comment your ideas, opinions, theories, even critiques, for your feedback is what motivates me to write.  
> The next chapter will most likely come out Saturday, as I have online classes to attend.  
> Thanks for reading, and please leave a comment.


	4. The End of the Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last King of the Rock falls, and another rises above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should be devoid of grammatical mistakes, but I already know that there are bound to be some.

**Aegon Targaryen II**

"Your grace, the construction of the King's Road in the Stormlands has reached its primary completion: now both Storm's End and King's Landing are properly connected and united." the lord of Maidenpool, Jon Mooton listed the updates on the several projects that were being steadily built across the dragon's territories.

"Have betrothals been made for the heirs of the houses that I had asked of?" the Lord Protector of the Realm, a title that Aegon was now used to fashion himself with, questioned.

The valyrian descendant gave him an affirmative nod: "Yes. The Kingsroad is also being steadily built along in the Riverlands, and is now scheduled to start a new track to join the Vale as well."

"Good. Let Sharra Arryn know that it is to arrive to the base of the Eyrie, past the Bloody Gate to pickup with the already existing High Road." he ordered, very much pleased with the way that their plans were slowly coming to fruition.

"On a further notice your grace, more and more ships carrying our people are arriving in the ports of Gulltown; this will be a boon for more valyrians shall settle in the Vale of Arryn proper." "Very well done lord Jon, as always. You may be dismissed." the robust man bowed and turned to walk away, leaving the two monarchs alone in each other's company.

Even if he didn't show it, Aegon was brimming with excitement: it had taken generations of work and careful planning, but now the seeds of that that their predecessors had sowed were rising and blossoming.   
It was going better than expected, and the young king felt as if he were blessed by both the dragonlords of Old and the Gods of their shattered homeland.

"Do you intend to name him as your Hand?" Rhaenys asked as she gently strung the strings of her beautifully crafted harp, long, calming sounds echoing from the instrument.  
"Again with this discussion?" the white haired adult looked at his sister, already picturing her without her soft and eye catching dress.

Rhaenys chuckled lightheartedly, "What?" "Oh nothing jorrāelagon. You just keep talking about it, and it seems as if you only care about that." Aegon frowned, though it was a playful one: "This is a matter of importance; one of these lords will be held responsible for helping me manage the Realm's daily matters once our conquest is over."

"Pick Orys. It is as simple as that." she told him, rolling her eyes at his stubbornness, "Besides, he is our blood, our family; we will reign supreme upon this land, why are you so hesitant with the deed?"

The dragon looked at his mate, rubbing his hand along the chiseled line of his chin, "Lord Mooton has proven to be an excellent general in this campaign against the two former kings; and he shares Valyria's essence in him." "So do millions of smallfolk and noble alike Egg. Orys is just as good as a leader, and holds an even stronger claim; he is the better warrior as well, and the better choice overall."

"I will think about it." he honestly replied, which caused her to show one of her infamous sly grins. The curvaceous Targaryen placed the musical instrument on a large cushion beside her on the bed, and walked up to him, her bare, pale feet coming to brush against his own clothed ones.

"All of this talking... it keeps boring me Egg." he chuckled, deciding to humor her: "And what do you advise I do, my Lady Hand?" he mocked her.

"You could put that mouth of yours to better use." she leaned forward, pressing her body against his rigid one, and Aegon felt his breeches become painfully tight; damn this woman, she would be the death of him!

"Rhae... stop... we can't, not now." the younger sibling sighed pouting her lips. "You are the king for Valyria's sake! Can you not give at least spend a day not focusing on your duties?" "You will have to complete them as well when you are crowned my queen."

The sudden intrusion of a third individual caused them to quickly separate, Aegon was about to shout at the stranger for interrupting the tender moment between his lover and he, but stopped once he saw that it was his older sister that had come.

"Vis, we weren't expecting you to come-"Put your armor on, you too Rhaenys." she was carrying a couple of scrolls.

"What is happening?" Aegon asked her, coming to read the piece of paper that was held in her hand, his eyes widening in surprise: "Uncle Daemavon and aunt Maenna are sailing across the Sea of Dorne with the fleet?"   
"Yes. They shall land at the Redwyine's harbor and begin to march northwards to Highgarden. They shall secure the complete loyalty and pledge of the Reach lords that have remained there."

The monarch was happy of the possibility of seeing his beloved family members after being a few months apart. "Once that is done, they will fly to meet with us at Casterly Rock."

"Why are you in such a hurry though?" Visenya turned around to glare at him, Vhagar's flames shone through her irises, her annoyance quickly whittling away at her patience: "Because," she paused, throwing Blackfyre at her brother, "Loren Lannister is at Cornfield keep, and our scouting forces are preparing to siege the castle."

No more words or explanations were needed to convince Aegon of the importance of this moment.

In a matter of minutes, with Rhaenys' help, he was donned in his Valyrian steel armor, and wearing his crown.

"Call the lords to the war council, immediately!" he barked to one of the guards, and they bowed, running off to complete the task.  
"My lords, thank you once more for coming at such short notice, but it vital that we capture Loren Lannister right now."   
"Where is the coward hiding your grace?" one of the Stormlands lord shouted, many agreeing with him and banging their fists on the table large table.

Aegon held his hand up, and silence feel over the room, he gave a quick glare to the noble that had spoken out of turn and then proceed to continue talking: "He is at Cornfield keep. It is with this information that I hereby order a siege to be put in place. After that, the lord of the castle shall be put to the sword and his line will be lowered to the status of stewards."

A young man cried out, "Your grace, my father had no choice in his hospitality with the lion, you cannot simply execute him!" Aegon recognized the lad as Rathar Swyft, the heir to Cornfield.

"Your father has declared himself in rebellion to his rightful king." "Your graces, these claims are preposterous, he would never betray his betters, he is a loyal- "If he was truly loyal, then he would have captured the fleeing cat and given him to us as a gift." the dragon king mercilessly cut him off, his voice cold and harsh, implacable like the Black Dread's flames.

"If you love your sire so much, then you will wish to join him in the afterlife as well; and given that I am a just king, I will even go as far as to give you the choice of death by dragonfire. Do you want to follow in the footsteps of your foolish father boy?"   
Rathar lowered his gaze, "No your grace, I understand. Forgive my disrespect." Aegon waved at two soldiers to take the unstable man away. It would be better to keep a close eye on that one, should he still hold resentment for what he was about to do.

"That will be all for now. We ride in an hour's time. I will be at the keep with my sisters by then, bring your men and provisions, and be prepared to fight tooth and nail." with that, he was off to mount Balerion.

His heart raced and his hands gripped the black spines of his dragon tightly.   
A lion would fall, and a dragon would rise.

**Visenya Targaryen IV**

Over the past moon or so, they had quickly moved away from the previous war camp that was now being built as a small town.

The hunt for the slippery and elusive King of the Rock had brought them to ride, and fly for many a day, constantly moving closer to the Westerlands.

Now they had crossed over the Lesser Mander and had passed the Red Lake, edging ever more to the center of power of the former kingdom.  
Soon enough, Cornfield keep came into her line of sight.

It was unfortunate for them that the mountains and hills of the West were so rich in metals and gems, for it allowed the lords that governed them to build mighty fortresses that proved to be extremely difficult to attack.   
The tall and thick stone walls were immovable, and made to withstand the flaming projectiles of catapults and trebuchets. Visenya doubted that even an explosion of black powder would have done much to pierce the wide and deep blocks of the grey element.

She let Vhagar circle around the large fortress a few times, both to instill fear in the rebellious lord and to properly observe the defenses.  
Her gaze narrowed as she took in the sight of the castle proper: Cornfield was built upon a small hill with shallow and sloping sides; the castle itself, already tall and solid in its size, as well as the inner ward was enclosed in a curtain wall which held towers... and those towers were round in shape, not squared; they would prove a difficult target to destroy on part of the trebuchets.

The rest of the lower hill hosted several buildings, and a small mine no doubt, along with a stone quarry, given the several carts that came in and out from a dark opening in the large rock.

That too was guarded with a second curtain wall, this one having machicolations as well... which would negate an assault with ladders. And to finish it, the entire site was surrounded by the moat of a flowing river, which placed them at another disadvantage.

Both gatehouses were extremely well defended, and the barbican in front of the moat's drawbridge created a choke point that the enemy could use to their advantage very well.

Something shined from one of the towers, the dragoness squinted to make out what it was; when she recognized the taught string of rope, she ordered Vhagar to fly upwards, and the scorpion bolt that shot from the stone structure grazed against the Valyrian steel plates that protected the great beast with a shower of sparks.

"Qrugh!" she cursed in her mother tongue. Her mount gave off a warm rumble from her great chest, and Visenya idly stroked her silver scales as they danced among the clouds.   
Even to this day, she was afraid of one of those damned bolts hitting her beloved companion, and her heart shuddered at the mere imagination of hurt being suffered by Vhagar.

She knew that the armor that Vhagar wore was extremely durable, and she knew that there wasn't anything like it: magically enchanted with spells long thought lost to many, only Visenya's own armor and sword could compare, but still, she worried of that minuscule chance.

Vhagar was a large, strong dragon, nearly as big as Balerion, but almost twice as fast; she knew that her tough hide was enough to stop those scorpions, but ever since she read of the Ghiscari that had used poison to win a battle or two against her ancestors... it made her grip onto her dragon all the more.

And her eyes... they were the most beautiful part of the powerful creature: violet, very much like her own... and if they were pierced, that would mean instantaneous death.

She was not going to risk the life of her dragon on such rash decisions.

The Targaryen conqueror looked down at the keep from where Vhagar flew into place, those rebels, no better than dirt, they looked like ants, insignificant and weak. They scattered inside the buildings that held the castle's servants and host... they were cravens, the lot of them: spineless and backstabbing, willing to stoop low as to reach their goals... if they truly cared for their lives, then they would have escaped, or forced the defeated king outside the walls themselves.  
Her blood was set ablaze as she spotted the scorpion tower that had nearly hit her.

"Dracarys Vaghar." she whispered as her teeth grit, and the silver monster did as commanded, and dived, tucking her wings to her sides.   
The air rushed past her as they descended from the sky like a bolt of lightning. A creature the size of Vhagar had no rights to move as fast as she was, but the Valyrians bowed to no one, whether it be men or gods.

At the last moment, she extended her great leathery leathery wings, and the flying serpent let loose the torrent of silver flames, bringing devastation along the curtain wall, pouring the terrible rage of the conqueror over the poor souls that had dared to attack.

The pass was a quick one, but the damage was done, and three towers had crumbled from the heat of the fire, the stone melting as if it were wax to the temperature of the dragonfire.  
The wooden defenses that lined the wall itself burned to ashes, as many men fell screaming down into the dark blue water below, staining the moat black and red... like the colors of house Targaryen.

Vhagar roared in delight, a roar so powerful that everyone would hear it from miles afar. Her rage calmed momentarily, and she watched as Aegon and Rhaenys flew close to her. The middle child of the Targaryen offspring waved at her to land, and so she did.

"Vis, why did you set flame to that portion of the wall?" he asked her as the three reunited to briefly talk to each other.

"They shot a scorpion bolt at me, and I returned the favor." he nodded at her. Parlay was out of the question now, for the house Swyft had attacked the rightful rulers first without hesitation, and that meant that peace was no longer an option.

"They have superiority in location and pressure, but the numerous murder holes will do nothing against our bannermen's dragon steel armor. One of those dreaded bolts, on the other hand..." she trailed off quietly, and Aegon understood her point.

While arrows would do nothing against the special metal alloy, a single shot from those scorpions would pierce even the thickest parts of the cuirass and shield of the infantry.

"The castle isn't half as big as Harren's; we could easily tear the walls down with our dragons, but we should first take care of those annoying ballistas." Rhaenys muttered, her eyes moving from one tower to the next.

"If we strike quickly enough, they won't have the necessary time to turn those cumbersome machinations to have their titanic arrows aligned with our trajectory." the Targaryen king stated, his eyes staring at the two gatehouses, "Once we form a large enough breach, we won't even have to worry about the proper entrances. We shall carve our own gate with Fire and Blood."

"That moat needs to be drained before we start our attack, otherwise our troops will be forced to sail across it, and that will lead to unnecessary casualties." the youngest dragon pointed towards the beginning of the small river.  
"Yes, I will order a couple of the lords near these lands to act upon creating dam, hopefully that will take away their source of water and food."

Visenya turned to the future monarchs of Westeros, a serious expression present on her ethereal face: "When we do attack the towers, have some of our own long ranged siege weapons fire upon the keep. It will be best to confuse them, and the chances of being targeted shall be lowered tremendously." "Very well, it will be done as you say."

There wasn't much space left between the fallen Lion and the victorious Dragons; and soon, the Westerlands would bow to their righteous conquerors.

"If that will be all, I shall go see to our own provisions and food stores; the countryside is rich with farms, and some more grain would help settle in the rest of the army."

It took the rest of the day for the combined forces of lords, paramounts and knights to arrive, and during that time, Visenya had taken it as her duty to ensure that all of their host was well fed and housed. She was displeased to see that some of the lords that had joined their cause recently were still slow to act; but it was nothing that a few harsh words, and strict punishments could not fix.

The ruthless dragon had briefly given thought on visiting her future husband and consort, but there were other matters that came before him, and she would ensure that he stay relatively safe during the imminent siege, for as long as he could still properly move and think, then the danger of not siring an heir with a legitimate claim to the former kingdom of the West would be void and null.

"Have the ravens been sent to our family in the south of the Reach and on the other side of the continent?" "Yes your grace. They should know about this development in five day's time." lord Oxter Crane spoke to her. He was the lord whose seat was closest to them, just on the side of the Red Lake, and he had graciously offered his help in all types of things... it was an unnatural behavior for certain men to adopt, but Visenya had heard rumors that he was a genuinely good patriarch. Though it did not stop her from wondering truly how much of his support was honest and how much of it was instead a farce meant to further please her line.

"You are dismissed." like so many others, he was intimidated to be in her presence, let alone her unsettling gaze. While some may have found her personality too cold and devoid of compassion, the dragoness did not care.   
She had lived like this for all of her youth and early adulthood, and till this day, not one problem arose that forced her to change her approach on her social figure and skills. And besides: the dragon did not concern itself with the opinion of the sheep.

By now, the sun was setting, and even though Visenya had barely done any strenuous physical activity, she felt exhausted and spent. Going over various sums and counts for the necessary supplies, horses, wagons and personnel was a task that was daunting to the mind: not mentioning the fact of having to read the reports of many of the lords the Reach and Westerlands. Ever since their victory at the 'Field of Fire' as it was being called by many a smallfolk; she had requested for the noble houses to give her a detailed and thorough recount of the past days: it was both to better understand the ways that these rich people acted, and the ways that she could best use to bring further glory to the Targaryen bloodline.

She was not expecting the sheer length of some of those written scrolls to be the what they were, and she had spent a good portion of the late afternoon reading pages upon pages of numbers and recent events.   
They were all the same, and there truly was nothing to be concerned about... except for the fact that they were all similar to one another, that was the common trait between all of the reports, and after having read the likes of them for a few fortnights, she came to the conclusion that it was once again done by the lords to put themselves in a favorable light.

Even now, the thought of reading about the usage of blood magic in Old Valyria did not sound that appealing, and she was mildly annoyed by it. Truly, she was beyond tired, and it would do no good to keep working herself like this.  
So for now, she would concede to the pleasure and satisfaction of simply clearing her head in the warm and comforting hold of a hot bath.

She called for a couple of her handmaidens to fill the large tub that was present in her amply sized tent. Other than that, she required no further help and the meek servants scurried away as if she were death itself.

But it was better like this: the dragoness wanted to be alone, to let go of her harsh, cold exterior and simply enjoy the pleasant sensations upon her toned and feminine body. She briefly felt unease at gradually taking the various parts of her armor off: from the shoulder plates, to the gauntlets and neck guard, as well as the breastplate, greaves and chausses. The interlocking chainmail and additional pieces of Valyrian steel coverings came next, until she was left in a light tunic that was inlaid with the fur pelts of all manner of beats, as well as with silk on the innermost layer that touched her skin. Truly, this was what gave her such comfort in wearing her armor at all times: Visenya never felt the cold, even when she flew above the clouds, and she wore a suit that was impervious to all metals, even in the joints that had less protection to allow movement. And the hard points of the scaled guard would never construct the way her body would twist and turn upon mounting Vhagar.

It felt like wearing a second set of skin, and it reminded her of her origins and blood: for unknown to but a few trusted individuals, the armor that the Targaryens used was blessed to absorb and withstand nearly every type of fire; that was why she never had the need to wear more pelts and furs.

Slowly, the stern woman undid the several braids of her long silver hair, that were bundled up in a single, primary braid that reached to the middle of her back. The dragoness did not wait a second more to immerge the lower half of her body in the steaming water, stopping to where it reached her delicate stomach.

A sigh of relief slipped from her throat and through her soft lips; "In the name of Valyria..." she gasped as her senses were overwhelmed with the soothing effect that the hot bath was having on her.  
Slowly, she slid down the rest of the way, laying her back on the edge of the metal tub.

Visenya often wondered if this was how Vhagar felt whenever she would bask in the warm light of the morning sun, or whenever she would rest next to the flowing rivers of magma present on Dragonstone.   
Still, the elite swordsman was not one to waste time, so it was not at all surprising when she began to gently clean her pale flesh, sliding the smooth sponge over her limbs and relaxed muscles.

These had been brought from a merchant that had traveled through the Jade Sea, and that had made much trade with the Golden Empire of Yi Ti... it was interesting to learn that these objects where collected from plants that grew in the depths of the bays and seas to the east of the known world... even the tales of the giant palaces made of solid gold were curios to discuss and learn about... that had been why her father lord Aerion had sent a small envoy to gather books from the Free Cities in Essos.  
Translating the bastardized versions of her own mother tongue was infuriating enough, but she curbed her anger in order to discover more of the far east.

Perhaps, once they would render these lands as rich in both knowledge and culture as Valyria once was, then they could set off to reclaim the lost colonies...

If there was a possibility for the Targaryens to return once more to the mythical days of the old Freehold, then Visenya would do everything that she could to ensure such a future.  
Who knew, perhaps her own offspring would be those to successfully enter the shattered land that had once hosted the capital of the dragons.

Yes, she could allow herself to fantasize in these few moments, allow herself to hope and wish for a united and strong realm that she had read in the old, dusty pages of the history books at her seat of birth.

But it would be difficult to achieve such a goal in so little time, and she doubted that she would live to see such things...   
Humming, Visenya finished cleaning herself, and got out of the bath, letting the droplets of clear essence slide off downwards to the carpets below her naked feet.

She retrieved an appropriate dress after drying herself, and settled in one of the comfortable chairs. A slew of handmaidens entered once more; they knew when to come and when not to, for they had learned exactly how much time the conqueror spent in the waters, and had thus understood her preferences.

"Mistress, you wish for the same as always?" the young woman behind her asked, and Visenya leaned her head against her fist, briefly closing her eyes. "Yes girl."   
She never addressed the servants with their names, even if she did know each and everyone of them; it was not because she thought herself superior, but it was because she could never know if to fully trust them.

And so, personal and close bonds were not formed, and the humble workers were always quick to please and leave, undoubtedly being nervous in her presence. But of course, there were exceptions: such as this little thing, who was brave enough to handle and brush her hair, something only few other people could claim to have done.

The girl was dutiful enough and kept quiet, only speaking when she ordered her to: and as far as she had seen, she was honest and true to her words. That was why she allowed her to carefully take care of her long silver strands. Visenya did feel some sympathy for the girl: she was orphan of both sire and bearer, and had been left to her own devices. Contrary to the near total of people present in the Crownlands, this one did not share their traits of light blond hair and violet eyes: instead, her head was adorned with a short crop of raven black hair, and the two orbs that were placed in their respective sockets were a warm brown.

Still, her hands did not tremble as she handled the fearsome dragon's mane. They gently held her hair as the brush removed any knots or clusters, smoothing them out and keeping them clean and healthy.  
What was more was that the girl had an undeniable skill in braiding it quickly and efficiently, while following her instructions to the letter.

Visenya was not one to let others do things for her: she hated the idea of not being capable of taking care of herself... but only for this particular action... well, she was willing to make exceptions.

The Targaryen already knew that her prized armor was being washed as well, as to eliminate the scent of bodily sweat: instead, some kind of dust made of crushed flower petals was being applied to both the interior and exterior of the various pieces. Those additions were what made the armor all the more comfortable to wear.  
The cape was being cleansed of mud stains and such, and she knew with certainty that everything would be completely dry come morning.

The true born Valyrian opened her eyes once more, feeling as the short, lithe fingers of the servant gently pulled and grouped the strands together, to create three braids.  
"Are you done yet girl?" "Nearly so mistress. Only the final touches are missing, then I shall leave you to your wishes." a small smile crept to her mouth: "Good."

After that, the woman bowed and left her tent. The dragoness walked up from the seat and settled on her bed, her hands briefly brushing over her fragrant and lush braids. The nightgown that she wore hid her modesty, but clung tightly to her body, and it showed her fit physique. Naturally, this was not a casual feature, but one that she personally requested in nearly all of her dresses suited for a private setting. Again, this was to remind her of the armor that she was so fond of donning.

Visenya's head was relatively clear as she slid under the covers of the large post that was clearly made to host a royal couple, given the ample space that was unused.   
The morrow would hold some interesting changes and happenings, and because of that, it would be not only necessary but beneficial to sleep well and prepare for the next conflict.  
  


**Tyren Hill IV**

The dawn had settled on them, and as things were, he partially wished to be elsewhere.

It was bad enough that he was meant to be placed as the new lord paramount of the Westerlands, but once he learned of his arranged marriage to one of the Dragon Queens as they were called, that was when he truly wished to have let the flames take him on that field of dry grass.

Tyren would never have guessed, much less hoped to achieve an opportunity like this and rise to heights unseen for a bastard; but he was still being forced into this position, and thus that brought him a sense of sorrow.

He knew what it meant to be hated, to be despised, yes, his upbringing had been better than far most of those who lived in this continent: his _father_ , when he still had been among the living so that he at least received an education comparable to that of true born.

But if it ever came to it, then Tyren knew that he would have to fake his inferiority, as to not let tongues waggle and rumors to spread. The Lannister dynasty was one that valued image and power above all else, and given his precarious situation, he knew that being the cause for unwarranted whispers would mean the end for him.  
If he had to thank the Gods for one thing, then it would have had to been the passing of Tygett... for it was only then that the young man of one and twenty was given the chance to taste freedom upon his tongue, or at least a partial version of it.

It was so nice and comforting: not being the center of focus of glares and mean whispers... he was treated like he was infected with Grayscale. It did not change much in Lannisport, but at least there he could hide his identity, and keep his noble parentage a secret.

He did not have to be Tyren Hill when he idly practiced with the city guard, passing the enlistment training and doing small favors here and there to gather some more coin.

It had allowed him to live moderately well in the small apartment at the top of the large, wide building in which he resided... but it all changed once he was called to participate in the war issued by King Loren.

There, it was harder to mask his status, and there would be no escaping the mocking jests that were sent his way.

But now, he was forced to once again embrace his origins, and that was why he dressed in the black and red armor that was akin to that of the Targaryen swordsmen. The only difference in them were the golden, roaring lions that had been stamped on his breastplate, and the pauldrons that had been shaped to resemble the roaring maws of his father's sigil.

Even the helmet was changed some to address the paternal side of his family.  
The sky was clear, and the three dragons roamed as they pleased while the men beneath them formed lines upon lines of legions and smaller formations, while heavy siege machines were pushed via both horse and footman alike to come into range of the castle's high curtain wall.

Tyren had to admit that he was shocked at the frighteningly quick speed with which those Targaryen woodcutters had created a barricade to stop the flow of water, and now the most surrounding Cornfield was nay but empty.

This time, the Hill bastard was being closely followed by a group of soldiers, all bearing the insignia of the dragon.

No one came to tell him of what was to happen... he had no prior knowledge on the plan that would be used to overpower the defenses that kept house Swyft in control; so when the walls fell to the combined flames of the conqueror's mounts, he charged along the rest of the infantry into the belly of the enemy, having his own deal of bloodshed and death.  
Whatever it was that the strange maesters had given him to heal, it had worked better than he expected, and his ribs were nearly back to being the same as before; still, that did not stop him from foregoing the use of a shield.

As such, the axe that was headed straight to his head was blocked, and Tyren stabbed his sword through the unarmored side of the shieldman, skewering him from one end to the next.

He kicked the dying man away from him, and slashed at another enemies' face, causing them to stumble backwards, and for him to decapitate the man with a well placed strike of the longsword.

Assemble closely around him, were the warriors from before, who seemed to follow him wherever he went. They were engaged in their own bouts, and Tyren helped finish their opponents by assisting them with unexpected blows.

"Archers! Duck!" he raised his shield in time to block a volley of arrows, and pushed forward towards the smaller breach that led to the keep itself, felling Swyft bannermen left and right as he went.   
But of course, there were also knights, and one nearly managed to catch by side, had it not been for one of the Targaryen soldiers that had followed him.

With a roar, he bashed the offending figure with his own body, sending them crashing against the wooden wall of a building, leaving cracks in the material; but the Westerman did not give time to the other to get back up, and he stabbed his blade forward so that it pierced the neck cleanly.

With a quick yank, it was freed with a spray of blood. He took the next moment to survey what was happening around the battleground, and saw the conqueror's forces steadily gaining ground and numbers to the defenders of the castle.

The inner ward was what was left of the resistance, so he ran towards it, but instead of going to join the fray, he unexpectedly took to the stairs that lined the walls, and came up to a group of bowmen who kept picking off lone individuals. They tried to counter him, but it was clear that they had very little experience with the sword, and since they did not wear steel plate, he cut through them all, hacking arms and legs, and using the end of his shield as a sort of makeshift hammer.

When he got to the last archer who had already begun to run, he rammed him from the back with his blade, causing the bleeding rebel to fall to the stone floor, weakly crawling away. Tyren stepped above him and slit his throat open, watching as more blood gushed out of his body. His helmeted head snapped upwards at hearing the approaching footsteps and he blocked the blow of the greatsword with the shield, grunting at the force behind the blow.

The behemoth of a man that he was fighting charged at him, almost succeeding in running him through as he did, had it not been for his quick reflexes. His big height gave way to a lack of speed, and Tyren soon found out that it was pathetically easy to disarm the walking giant, and take his head off as well.

An arrow pierced his shoulder plate, but surprisingly, it did not penetrate the steel. Filled with adrenaline, he rushed towards the other segment of the wall as the archer fled away.   
He stopped when another swordsman stepped in his way, brandishing his own shield.

This was a more balanced duel, and Tyren was quickly forced to treat his new opponent with caution, as the way he moved and attacked clearly demonstrated that he had more experience than him.

He hissed as his blade dug over light mail that covered his elbow; this knight was very good indeed... taking a couple of steps back, he waited for the Swyft warrior to make his move, trying to force him to commit risky and unsafe strikes.

But it was all for naught, as the man's nerves were made of solid iron, and he did not fall for his faints and traps. The fact that the battle was still being fought fiercely did not help, and Tyren wanted to is desperately look around him to see what was going on, alas he could not, for it would spell his death.

The Hill heard armored footsteps come up from behind him, and he gave a glance to see that it was one of those elite warriors who had been following everywhere. Internally, he grimaced, for he found their constant presence unsettling.   
There was no strategy except for attack, and the veteran swordsmen soon found himself missing a limb, as well as a neck to the overpowering combination of both enemies.

The dragon loyalist yelled something at him in Valyrian, and harshly pulled him back to another row of stairs, ordering to climb them until they reached the inside of the keep's courtyard. The other men that had accompanied him seemed to be very much not pleased with his actions.

But his attention was soon drawn to the fact that the knights, and bannermen of the rebelling house surrendered, and threw their weapons to the muddy ground. Cheers rang out from the Targaryen host, as he spotted Dromen Swyft, the lord of this castle, as well as Loren Lannister being placed at the center of the gathered circle. The latter was partially wounded, as seen by the slight limp in his steps.

Jeers rang out as both were forced to kneel, insults and foul instigations were thrown to them; Dromen looked to be wetting his smallclothes, while the fallen lion did not let the hurtful words affect him, as he kept a stern mask over his face.

Tyren watched as the three conquerors dismounted from their dragons, having to do so outside the courtyard as the sheer size of the beasts was too large to be held within this space. More cheering and chanting was heard as King Aegon marched forward, his crown of rubies glistening in the mid morning sun.

"Loren Lannister; former King of the Westerlands, and now, a cowardly green boy," laughter echoed from all as the Targaryen monarch japed at the expense of the kneeling figure in front of him.

"You have lost," he continued, "The houses of these lands have sworn fealty to me, your days of ruling as a king are now over. You have proven quite cumbersome in our advance, and have done nothing but soil my betrothed's name, addressing her as a whore who spreads her legs to any cock that she sees." more angry shouts echoed out as the Lannister did not back away from the contest.

"In another lifetime, I would have offered you the same terms as your former vassals; but it is clear that you are not worthy of such mercy. You shall be executed, along with the sniveling craven that cries besides you." "And under what circumstances do you presume to command me boy?" Loren finally spoke.

"You are a foreigner to this continent, you corrupt our ways of life and now you presume to claim that I am immoral." he looked at him venomously, a glint of arrogance present in his eye: "I demand a trial by combat."

There were whispers here and there, and the dragon's expression remains impassive, but his hands were clenched tightly. "Very well. Choose your champion." he spat out, moving away from him.

The lion barked a harsh laughed, getting back up to his feet, "I will fight my own battles boy. Run to your mother's skirts while you can, for the lion's claws will soon be tangled in the neck of a dragon." he snatched his sword from one of the soldiers close to him, as a space was created around the courtyard.

He slid the longsword out of the scabbard, and the dark ripples coating the blade as well as the lion shaped pommel showed that this was Brightoar, the ancestral blade of house Lannister.

Visenya stepped close to Aegon and told him something in High Valyrian. He nodded at her, and turned to look directly at him: "Tyren Hill, I name you as my champion." his heart stopped in shock, and for a moment, he thought that he was going to collapse.

Steadily, he walked to where the Targaryen was standing, and kneeled to him, "As you wish, your grace." he looked onwards to his father's brother, and narrowed his gaze. The long forgotten rage, and despise that he felt for the man began to resurface in his mind, as he gripped his sword.

Loren was wounded, but he had the better weapon by far, so it was an even match. There were no spoken rules or signals that demanded the beginning of the trial, the two lions moved so that they were within striking range.

"You have turned your back on your family then, bastard? Hmm... that is not surprising. I should have convinced Tygett to throw you and your whore of a mother out on the streets long before he passed." he muttered silently so that only he could hear. Tyren took off his helmet, so that he could properly look him in the eye.

"The family you keep insisting I belong to despised me above all else. When the conquerors reach Casterly Rock, I myself will give that rotten woman that is your wife your head." "Laurane will spit at you. She will at least know that I perished as a lion, killed by his own kin." "Both of us will be kinslayers come the end of the day."

And with that, they clashed, the otherworldly sounds of the Valyrian steel kept echoing throughout the area as they battled for dominance; one was motivated by the will to survive, the other by the encompassing fire of rage.

Tyren roared when the longsword cut his arms and legs; he had foregone the shield, to keep the fight a noble one, and was forced to feel the painful bite of the blade over his flesh. But he savagely clawed at Loren as well, slashing at his wounded thigh and at one point nearly taking his eye out with a quick upwards strike.

Theirs was not a battle meant to be sung by bards: it was a brutal as any other one... there were no techniques involved, as they both succumbed to their rage and adrenaline and instead appeared more as lions of the wild.  
Tyren staggered backwards as his sword shattered to the superior metal and cursed as the blade raked across his forearm once more, cutting through the steel of the armor.

His hand darted to his belt and he took out the daggers, holding that as well as with the broken remains of his weapon. He waited as the other advanced, and leaned to the side in order to avoid his strikes, trying to replicate some with the pitiful excuse of a blade that he held. Tyren came at his mortal nemesis again and again, always managing to cut through his metal, tough still becoming more and more wounded as a result.

But then, he surprised Loren by letting go of his blade and dashing forwards grabbing his arm as it was about to fall down on him. They stood locked in a standstill, one trying to wrench the valyrian blade downwards, while the other to keep it above his head.

But Tyren, although a bastard, still had the blood of Kings of the Rock, and his feral drive could not be quelled, and he began to twist the sword outwards, out of his area. Then, with a vicious shout, he mercilessly kicked his foot into Loren's leg, and felt it buckle under the force of it.

The lion was forced down to a knee, and in a split second, he punched Tyren, and slashed horizontally with Brightroar, leaving a small gash in his cheek. But it was not enough to kill the stronger man and ruthlessly, he grabbed the Lannister by the arm and stabbed the dagger, the same one his father had gifted to him, into Loren's armpit, and the man roared in agony, Brightroar falling from his grip.

He shot up and smashed his head into Tyren's nose, breaking it... but the lowborn noble held on to him with all of his strength and twisted the short blade further in to man's flesh, earning another gasp of pain from him. The younger lion looked at the wounded one with hatred and abhorrence, as his nose bled freely and abundantly.

He leaned closer to him, so that he could whisper into his ear, his other hand coming to harshly grip the back of his head: "This blade was given to me by my father... he said that it belonged to Lann the Clever himself. As he was the first... our dynasty ends here... _uncle_."

Tyren yanked the dagger out and held it to his throat. Loren coughed, blood coating his lips, but even then, he chuckled: "You have aligned yourself with a lot of incestous foreigners... to think that my end would come at your blade of all," he gasped, violently coughing once more, his breath ragged and weak. "Then finish what my brother started bastard... end the Lannister lineage... and be done with it."

His mocking words poked and prodded at the part that he always tried to keep away, that unstoppable darkness that would envelope him suddenly and turn him in a different person all together. He had no control over his actions when his hand dragged the steel over the skin of his own brood, and watched incapable of doing anything as the fallen king began to choke on his own red liquid. Still, even as he fell down to his last spurts of energy, he kept gripping on to him, and when the life finally left his emerald eyes, his body slumped to the floor.

Dead... and gone forever.

Tyren sighed, the storm of anger, sadness and even grief kept rampaging through his soul, tears welling at his orbs. The last Lion of the Rock was dead, murdered by his hand. The emotions whirling in him threatened to overwhelm him, as he picked up Brightroar, looking over at it.   
Numbness started to settle in, physically as well as mentally.

He felt exhausted, and he felt brittle in that moment, as if the slightest gush of wind would tip him over and shatter his frame into thousands of small pieces of glass. Tyren did not feel the biting sting of the wounds anymore, it was as if he had just consumed some Milk of the Poppy.

With a slight stagger, he walked back to the Targaryens, and kneeled in front of Visenya. He held up the Valyrian steel blade to her, bowing his head and looking at her feet.

"The Westerlands have no monarch, but the one descended from the dragons of Old Valyria." "By right of conquest, Casterly Rock... and house Lannister are yours to command."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jorrāelagon= love  
> I do not know how to feel about the ending siege of this chapter, much less the emotional battle at the end between Tyren and Loren. I hope that it was good enough so satisfy you (I do not have that much experience writing large scale battles) and I sincerely hope that I manage to convey the right emotions for trial by combat.  
> Again, please let me know what you thought in the comments, for they will help me in bettering the writing process.


	5. Casterly Rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dragons arrive at the Rock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I will be trying to post longer chapters, so now the expected word count should be around 12k words.

**Tyren Hill V**

The great many people of Lannisport where up and standing in the streets, cheering for the newcomers; who were none else then the Targaryen conquerors.

Flower petals were thrown in the air, bards and musicians sung their songs as the crowds chanted shouts of approval and praise to the dragons.

Families could be seen staring out of the windows and balconies of the several, towering buildings, the port itself now mostly contained large warships which displayed black sails and the sigil of the red three headed dragon.

And everywhere Tyren looked, he saw naught but men and women dressed in such a similar manner. He was so used to seeing the Lannister gold and red, that the change left him eerily surprised and at unease.

But what kept disturbing him, other than the apparent opposite of what he had seen in his recent nightmares, given that there were no fires or dragons that lay waste to the mighty city; no, it was the fact that these people, these smallfolk, families who had lived in these lands for thousands of years, who owned everything to the house of the lion.

No matter how much gold, or how much the betterment the previous royals had gifted this city founded in their namesake, it still did not make a change in the logical or pure rationality of these people: Tyren had watched with his own green eyes, as the masses were swayed by the Faith of the Seven, of how they cheered for their king's victory.  
Of how women would sway, and men would bend the knee and offer themselves as loyal bannermen to Loren.

Now though, they screamed in delight and happiness, accepting the newcomers with complete open arms, and not an ounce of ill will.  
It was no secret that Tyren resented his father's side of the family, for many reasons unbeknownst to many but him.  
But to see how they were celebrating the arrival of the very own monarchs who had not only ended, but deposed the Lannister line... the highborn bastard did not know why, but it made him wroth with rage.

He felt disgusted at the sight that was in front of, and around him. Maybe it was the notion that they ha fall seemingly betrayed their rightful king, they were no better than backstabbers. No better than the traitors that filled the city's dungeons.

At the moment, he was trotting forward on a gentle steed, watching as Aegon and Rhaenys rode in front of the procession, completely safe from any kind of danger as there was a double set of rows containing both guard and horse alike.   
Additionally, their proper mounts circled above the sky, bathing themselves through the white fluff of the clouds.

These people looked up to the dragons with awe, amazement in their eyes. Just three moons ago, they recoiled with fear at the mere mention of these beasts. It was quite the change in demeanor.

Tyren was a few spots back, he too flanked by guards, the same elite ones that had stuck to him at the siege of Cornfield. It seemed as if their sole purpose was to guarantee his safety.

Finally, the new object that he had won on that faithful day lay strapped to his side, inside the scabbard attached to his belt.  
Even if the blade was made of Valyrian Steel, Brightroar felt heavy in his hand, no matter the time or way in which he held it.

It seemed to have a mind of its own, a consciousness almost, and it judged him harshly for what he had done. The metal felt cold, hostile even. The long, decorated leather grip of it was uncomfortable whenever he held it, and for some even stranger reason, it fought against his movements, instead of aiding him.

Perhaps this was his penance given to him by the Old Gods, for slaying one of his own kin... or mayhaps it was the spirits of the Lion Kings of times past, who reacted violently to the notion of him laying his tainted, impure fingers on the legendary sword.

Tyren even remembered exactly what had happened, down to the most minute of details:

_"The Westerlands have no monarch, but the one descended from the dragons of Old Valyria." "By right of conquest, Casterly Rock... and house Lannister are yours to command."_

_Visenya gingerly took the longsword from his outstretched arms, watching as the light shined along its sharp and deadly edge. "And so they have." she silently whispered._

_Her younger brother stepped forward, "Loren Lannister is dead. The dragon has achieved supremacy over the Iron Kings!" a thunderous round of cheering and applause followed as many bannermen congratulated each other in the good deed._

_Once everything quieted, Aegon cast a murderous glare to the cowering lord of house Swyft. "As for you, lord Dromen; you shall be put to the sword, your heirs and daughters will be lowered to the rank of stewards."_

_The robust man had fat tears running down his wide cheeks, which were nearly as red as the apples that commonly grew within these lands._   
_"Your grace, please! I could not refuse that coward's demands, he would have had my entire line dead come the daylight!" he begged, sniveling like a pig about to be butchered._

_A couple of shieldmen brought forth a block and placed it close to them as the craven kept trying to declare his innocence. "Enough," Aegon finally spat, his ire being poked by the man's continuous excuses, "It is you who are a coward Dromen, and a fool as well. Had you had the barest resemblance of wit, then you would have denied the Lannister's cry for aid."_

_"And yet you did not, and as such, you shall pay for this inconvenience." "No! Please, please! King Aegon, I did not do it on purpose!" surprisingly, the young Targaryen monarch stepped forward and unsheathed Blackfyre, coming to stand in front of him, plating the tip of the blade into the ground._

_"Lord Dromer of house Swyft, under the charges of treason, and attempted rebellion, I, Aegon Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms and Lord Protector of the Realm, sentence you to die by beheading." his voice boomed throughout the courtyard, carried by the imperative and aristocratic spirit of a thousand generations of dragonlords._

_"Do you have any last words?" he spoke to him, getting into position, "Your grace, I can give you lands, riches... w-women too, I can give- he was not allowed to finish as the Valyrian Steel metal passed through his neck and clothes, not stopping until it reached the dirt of the ground._

_His head followed soon after, and Aegon gave a snort of rage and kicked it away, cleaning his prized Blackfyre upon the vests of the now deceased lord._   
_More cheering followed, as Balerion roared triumphantly behind him, spreading his wings apart so wide that it bathed them all in its shadow._

_Tyren had watched everything with the tail of his eye. Truly, he was not that interested with the fate that the lord had suffered. He briefly sighed, as the pain began to register in his mind, the several lines and cuts that oozed blood became particularly nasty with their sting._

_He felt a hand grasp his shoulder plate, and was lifted back up to his feet. He looked up to see that Visenya was staring at him once more with those piercing violet crystals. "You did well Hill, considering the situation and difference between the quality of weapons."_

_The bastard swallowed thickly, suddenly not being able to keep her unsettling expression. "I-I... should go see a healer." he stuttered lightly, his throat tight. The emotional weight of his actions came crashing down on his back, and he felt that he would be flattened to paste by its weight._

_"Yes, you will." the dragoness commented, watching as he got up to his feet, and nearly fell back down in exhaustion. Tyren gathered his strength and repeated the process once more: his knees buckled and he expected to collapse right then and there, but a steady and strong grip prevented him from doing so._

_His breath hitched a little when he felt the brutal conqueror slip her plated arm around his frame, sliding it under his own arm so that his weight fell on to her._   
_"Your grace... you need not do this." he began to say, but was silenced by her harsh glare: "You will only hurt yourself further in acting so stupidly; the hardheaded fools that insist on being alone are those that get torn apart first. Now walk." she commanded as the first step was completed, and then the second after that, and then the third, the fourth and so on._

_No matter how hard he tried, Tyren could not stop his body from pressing more closely into Visenya's; if his bulk was a nuisance, then she wasn't complaining about it, but then again she was the type of woman who would never voice her difficulties and such._

_A dragon through and through she was, and acted as one as well. Had this been another situation, then Tyren would have likely been embarrassed by it: to be carried over and assisted like a child, by a dame no less, there would be many a man who would call him not warrior enough._

_But as stated previously. Visenya was one of a kind, rarer than even the most unique rubies. Even as his vision began to blacken, and his eyelids began to drop, Hill could still make out the part of the castle to which they were going: it was the keep itself, and into the one of the personal rooms of the lord._

_"My queen... the maester's chambers must be at the opposite end of the hallway... not here in the lord's quarters..." his weak protest, did nothing against her unchangeable resolve, and she instead pulled him tighter to her, her heavy footsteps not slowing down in the slightest._

_"I gave you an order, if you are my loyal vassal, then you shall obey it." she answered, her tongue tipped with the typical coldness that was oh so common in her personality._

_Tyren sighed and lightly shook his head, knowing that it would be useless to argue... and provoking the wrath of the dragon would of him no favors._

_A servant opened the elaborately and finely crafted oak door in front of them, and the Targaryen queen and the Lannister bastard were treated to the splendor and opulence of the Westerlands' riches._

_Delicately, Visenya leaned forward so that he could sit on the large bed, and Tyren started to unlatch the binds of the unknown metal that composed his armor. He had some difficulty with the breastplate, particularly with the joints in the back, but he proved capable enough to succeed in his quest._

_The dangerous conqueror helped him by removing the lion shaped pauldrons, and took off the chainmail that covered his torso as he worked on the grieves. Soon, he was left in his normal cloth clothes. Tyren watched as the last piece of plate dropped to the stone floor with an audible clank, next to the rest of the other pieces._

_He felt a tightness in his throat, one that would usually come whenever he cried, and Tyren tried his very best to focus on something else. But then, he felt cold gauntleted hands grasp his face and tilt it upwards so that her iliac orbs could unveil all of his darkest secrets. The tips of her taloned fingers lightly dug in his cheeks, reminding him very much of the claws of a dragon._

_Tyren was too tired to stop her, so he stared at her as well, tough it was clear that he was struggling to stay awake as well. Slowly, her pale eyes turned to look at the still bleeding cut on his cheek, given to him by his acquired family during the earlier trial by combat. Her thumb brushed over it with gentleness that would not commonly be expected from one of her status._

_"You were brave for fighting your uncle alone. I knew that you had a fire inside, waiting to be unleashed." he hesitated to answer, his lip trembling slightly as his vision began to get blurry with water: "I killed him..." "You accomplished your goal."_

_"H-he was my f-father's brother... I was kin to him." he tried to turn away but could not break her grasp. "You proved yourself worthy." her words confused him more, and Tyren had not the will, nor the want to know what she meant with them._

_"I committed a sin, a grievous one..." he whispered as he stared to the side, anywhere else other than her. Finally, the dragoness relented her hold, and Tyren felt his breath of anxiety exit his being. Her strong hand went flat against his chest, and pushed him down on the bed: "One of the healers shall arrive here shortly. I expect you to obey their recommendations and advice on how to beast treat your wounds." she stated, stepping away from him._

_The Targaryen turned around, her braid of silver hair trailing behind her back. "Hill," she paused before moving out of the door completely, one of her dangerous and predatory eyes forcing him to sit still: "You will not do anything else unless it comes from my lips. Have I made myself clear?" her clipped and unforgiving tone echoed out to him._

_"Yes your grace." was his quiet response, and Visenya left without a further word._

_Tyren slowly leaned backwards, until he came to rest against the soft material of the luxurious mattress._   
_The healer, (who had valyrian coloring as well) came soon after and began to apply some kind of oil to his wounds._   
_Strangely enough, the reaction wasn't as painful as what he thought it would, and so he did not require the consumption of Milk of the Poppy._   
_Hill's eyes widened once he the healer pass a few herbs and pieces of metal and rock over a light flame, and saw that pure red fire became a light blue. Then, even more surprised then before, he watched as the man gently pressed the burning end of a thin stick to his cuts, and watched as it cauterized the openings._

_Again, it did not hurt, hardly so. By the end of the process, Tyren had several questions on how and why he felt nothing at all. "Drink this, and rest until the morrow." was everything the man told him as he presented him a bowl filled with what looked like water._

_The bastard took it in his hands, and cautiously smelled it. There was something else in it; that much was undeniable. But Tyren drank it, and was pleased to feel that it didn't have a revolting taste like he had been expecting._

_Once more, the healer bid him to rest and went away. The strange methods of healings and art that the man had used had allowed him to distract himself, but soon enough his mind wondered off to what he had been thinking not too long ago._

_Killing Loren felt good, the bastard had felt as if some kind of shackle had been removed from his being... but it did not last for long... and in some way, it even disappointed him. He thought that he would never care, and yet, to his complete and utter surprise, he did... Tyren was feeling remorse for one of the people who had condemned his unjust treatment at the hands of all._

_He did not know why, but a part of him regretted his actions. It was clear that his inner turmoil would not be quelled so easily. The young men felt alone, truly alone for the first time in his life. He had no one left to talk to, no one to stay with, no friends and certainly no remaining family members, but such was the fate of many a bastard that were born in these lands._

_Not knowing what to do, he fully lied down on the bed, not bothering to move the silk covers of the frame of it over his tired and scarred body._

_An unknown amount of time passed, and he was awoken by the footsteps that came to stop to his left. Tyren did not move or jolt in surprise; he merely watched throguh his eyelashes as the individual came to stop just to his side, a hair away from touching him. It took him nearly no effort to quickly recognize the scaled armor that was decorated with dark ripples, along with the numerous encrusted rubies._

_"Your grace," he got up, and Visenya stared at him, like a man did with sack of gold. "What do you require of my services?" Tyren bowed to her, and felt her fingers, still covered in armor, tilt his chin up, the sharp ends of them lightly tickling the thin and small hairs that dotted it. "How do your wounds fare?" "Good your grace. The healer was very proficient in his arts." she nodded, satisfied._

_Subconsciously, he pushed her hand away, feeling uncomfortable with how close she was. Visenya looked at him with a pointed glare: "Kneel."_

_Tyren licked his lips as his legs came to touch the carpet that covered the stone. He watched with baited breath as she pulled out a sword, and he realized that it was Brightroar. The blade had been clean and purified from the blood and dirt that had coated it earlier, almost as if it had never seen battle at all. The dragoness rested the flat side of it on his shoulder "Tyren Hill of Lannisport," she began to speak, "For your valorous actions in the siege of this castle, I gift you with the formal title of Azantys. You have proven yourself worthy of it, as this fine blade as well."_

_He looked at her, a surprised gasp on his face, "Y-your grace... I cannot accept this gift, nor the title. It is too good for a bastard like myself." her eyes turned cold and cutting as they descended upon him like her mount had done at the previous battle._

_"Bastardry is nothing to the blood of Old Valyria. A good portion of the populace around the peninsula in Essos, and on the eastern banks of Westeros are descended this way. That excuse has no place in this new realm. You would do well to remember that boy." he did not like the way that she spoke to him, it made him feel on edge, for it reminded him far too much of Loren and his ruthless persona._

_"The sword... Brightroar... I can understand why it would be given to me. But the title?" he shook his mane of brown hair, "I see naught the reason for it."_

_"Because," the conqueror stated as she held the longsword of tempered metal for him to take, "The word means warrior in High Valyrian. And being given the name was once seen as a great honor in the days of the Freehold." "So it is like knighthood?"_

_Visenya's lips soured in a displeased frown, as if the simple comparison between the two institutions was offensive and insulting: "Yes, in a way they are similar."_

_Hill's mind was reminded of all of the oaths and promises to which knights were held to obey and uphold, so he tentatively asked her as much: "Are there duties that befall upon me?" "If you mean in having to travel and participate in useless tourneys and frivolous games like those then no."_

_"So there is no other reason for this other than to attain a noble position?" "You are correct in that regard: this will also function as a way for you to carry a prestigious honor to your name, for I am sure that many of the nobles around Casterly Rock, and the Westerlands as a whole will be wroth with the thought of a baseborn son taking the ancestral Lannister seat as his own." Tyren could not help but add quietly: "They will already hate me all the more once they learn that Brightroar is mine."_

_The Targaryen continued to talk as if she hadn't heard him, but the bastard knew very well that she had indeed: "This will also serve our cause to better settle Valyrian customs among the houses and nobles alike."_

_"Many will be up in arms when you tear down the septs that have been built over the centuries. The smallfolk especially will not be so easy to accept a new religion." he quietly said as he finally grasped the grip of the longsword, and held it to the floor, his green eyes looking at lion shaped pommel of the weapon._

_"How do you plan to overcome such a problem?" "The peasants will learn to believe in our Gods as they did the Seven. It will only be natural once they will realize the better rule that we Targaryens will place." he placed Brightroar on the bed, a single finger tracing over its beautiful hardened steel: "That still does not answer my question." "You will learn of the answer with time; do not pretend to overstep your bounds Hill, for you still are our prisoner and likewise hostage." she silently threatened him._

_"Of course, my apologies your grace." but she still wasn't finished with talking to him, as she uttered strange words: "Ao issi mijegon ēngos."_

_"What?" he asked the dragonlord as he turned around to face her once more, "You are without tongue. You cannot talk in High Valyrian, and thus you are helpless like a newborn babe. That is why you will take to learning the language of us dragons." she stepped closer to him, and he Tyren inched away from her._

_Her warm breath fell on his lips as her violet crystals bore into his own, "I will not have an unlettered man be my companion for the rest of my life. I expect you to learn a great deal of it come the end of the year. If not, there will be dire consequences."_

_Tyren bowed his head, obeying her orders again. "Will I have access to a library of some sort?" "No, a tutor will be offering their services to you. The efforts of learning High Valyrian will be the only thing you need to worry of, lest you wish to disobey me."_

_"Yes, your grace. I will try my best to master the language." "Daor, you will succeed, there is no other path to take." she cut in, uncaring for his feelings or even opinion on the entire matter as a whole._

_"Se tubis iksos nykeēdrosa hāeda. Ask your tutor about these words. They will be the first stepping stone to your journey." and with that, she turned around and left, the red cape gliding behind her as the dragoness moved away._

_Tyren watched as her tall form exited his vision, and he then nearly collapsed to the floor. He swallowed thickly, as he ran a hand through his short brown curls._

_He found her to be hostile... and far too heartless for a good leader. Tyren whished to have born in another body... he... he found that his position was one that would still be taken advantage by any who wished to do so._

_For now, he would have to bide his time. The Hill did not know how good he would be at manipulating or lying to people, and he knew that it would be unwise indeed. But he still hoped for something to change, and maybe something would, come enough time._

And that had been a fortnight ago. Since then, Tyren had tried his best to hide Brightroar, but it was evident that some lords noticed, and eventually word spread of it. Many men looked at the golden lion head of the pommel with greed in their eyes; and he could still hear the whispers and talk that were had wherever he walked.

The Valyrian steel sword was not a weapon that he wished to keep... for it reminded him too much of Lannisters... even this matter that concerned his future marriage with the dragon unsettled him. Not even a legitimization would do a lot to help him. He would always be considered a bastard... perhaps he would have to travel to the North; from what he had read in the tomes that Maester Hugar, bastards were seen a little more favorable, and Tyren theorized that it was that way because of the long reigning religion of the Old Gods and their weirwood trees... but by the same token, he could also be as equally if not more hated and despised for slaying his uncle.

Perhaps they would reenact a northern execution, and hang his entrails over the white branches of the red leafed trees, having his eyes gouged, his tongue ripped out and his ear cut off.

Then it would be best to head off south to Dorne; supposedly, they were the most tolerant kingdom in Westeros when it came to bastards.   
And if he wouldn't find some simple peace and quiet there, then he would sail across the Narrow Sea and to the Free Cities.

But this would never happen, if he were to marry the dragon queen.

From the sky, Tyren heard a few loud roars, and he raised his head to look at the flying beasts; his mouth nearly fell in shock at seeing two more dragons, of similar size, circling around the other three.

The larger one had scales that were a rich deep blue, while the other was colored in a light red. There were... five dragons... that roamed the skies of the realm. And he noticed that even these ones were covered in armor...

It was madness to oppose these conquerors, the more and more that he observed their host and forces, the clearer it became that Loren and Mern Gardener's cause was a lost one.   
The guard to his immediate right told him something in High Valyrian, and he understood the words.  
Shaking his head lightly, he continued to trot forward on his steed, keeping up with the pace of the procession as they steadily made their way up to the mountain that contained the Rock itself, the many towers, curtain walls and holdfasts glittered and shined under the sun rendering the titanic fortress all the more mighty and formidable.   
This could have been the Lannister's last bastion against the Targaryens, he doubted that the dragons would be able to melt the part of the castle that was built inside the Rock...

As they got nearer to the main entrance, the Lion Gate, less and less townsmen flanked the sides of the long and steady flow of banners and wagons. Tyren watched as the future King and Queen of Westeros mount their dragons and take off, presumably to land on the upper portion of the mountain, where the original, and most well defended point of the Rock was built.

It would not take as long as it would then having to climb through the many flights of stairs, as well as having to take the lifts that separated the entire palace in two halves.

Tyren could not stop his unease at walking inside the large, rich hallways that he had come to grow up in his youth... they filled his soul with dread and misery at the many unfortunate memories that were contained in these passages.

The opulence and wealth displayed on the walls and archways had no equal, even the floor itself was constructed by white marble lined with silver and gold inlays. to be finally finished off by a set of fine carpets.   
Nearly every inch of the walls was adorned with some kind of precious object or jewel: some halls even had statues of gold to decorate them. This was no mistake, for this was the epitome of all of the Westerlands' wealth and power... there was nothing from the Wall to Asshai that could even compare to the overwhelming monstrosity that was the Lannister's seat.

And yet, for all of its splendor and shine, it was still beautiful in a mesmerizing way; and the castle was built this way of the centuries to inspire and awe whomever visited the keep.

Every part of the Rock held this same amount of quality, except for the central castle at the peak; the numerous mine entrances, the entire quarters dedicated to smiths and craftsmen, the stables, the granaries, the coffers, even the ports on the lowest part, they still held this kind of wealth.

But this did not mean that it was easily conquerable: Tyren knew very well that there were numerous gate houses here and there, along with heavy gates that could trap parts of the halls, thus limiting and controlling the many passageways. And there were murderholes, hidden entrances, hidden passages as well; there was everything and anything that a defender could possibly need to drive out the enemy forces that were assaulting the indomitable seat of the Lion.

And as they marched upwards, passing by levels and at one point being ferried by a set of lifts that brought them even higher, Tyren could notice the bannermen in dark steel armor who guarded all of the entrances and halls.   
It seemed as if the Targaryens had completely taken over Casterly Rock, and when they entered the official part of the castle, that which contained the Lannister family wing, Tyren saw the three headed dragon fly high above the many walls and towers of the fortress.

A small gust of wind made him shiver, as they were many hundreds of feet up the level of Lannisport, and the air was colder here. It had been estimated that the Rock's overall height from top to bottom was that of twenty one hundred feet, three times the height of the Wall. Clouds lined the area under them, and it was easy to spot many eagles and falcons alike flying at these altitudes.

The grandeur of the Lannister's keep was second to none, and Tyren felt his throat tighten at the sight of it: for the very first time in his life, he would enter the central castle that had been built by the Casterlys long ago.   
As a child, he had never been permitted to pass by the large, steel gates and gilded walls. It was done to separate him from his trueborn kinsmen... because he was not worthy of walking in, or staying in the same room as the proper Lannisters. His own, small bed chambers were much further down the fortress, inside the bowels of the mountain.

Whenever he interacted with his father, it had been there, never here.

But now he was doing something that had been sworn to him to never do. And this time, it was thanks to dragons made flesh.   
And it was a surreal experience, truly: the instant he stepped over that titanic gate, he felt as if he was entering a different realm all together.

The clean, strict and categorized halls and passages were all meticulously decorated, and everything seemed to achieve a higher level of wealth in it.  
The flower gardens and exotic trees that grew in their appropriate pots were all well groomed and tended to. There were no objects that where misplaced, the several flags and banners that hung by the walls had been replaced with Targaryen ones; the ominous beasts that flew over the Rock certainly added to the atmosphere.

But it was as he was entering through the opened jewel and gold encrusted doors of the Hall of Gold that his breath quickened and his pupils dilated. At the end of the long hall, was the Lion Throne, the seat of power of the Westerlands themselves.

Currently, no one was seated upon it, but the great deal of people that were at the base of the grand staircase that led up to the stone chair caught his attention. He watched as the white haired royals spoke to each other, noticing two that he hadn't yet seen: one was a man, slightly shorter than King Aegon and himself, but it was easy to see the resemblance between them, even with the respectable beard that the middle aged man was sporting.   
The woman besides, perhaps his wife, and most likely sister (given the same coloring) was shorter still, much like Queen Rhaenys; but the structure of her face and nose especially, resembled Queen Visenya.

The unknown Targaryens turned to look at him with their rare violet eyes, stopping whatever talk they were having with the rest of their family.   
Like the three conquerors, these sported beautiful handcrafted Valyrian Steel armor and swords, tough he noticed that their faces held a couple of scars, indicating experience in the battlefield.

The red and black of their capes made their presence seemingly blend in with their birthright, and they looked the part of monarchs just as good as the other dragons.

Tyren approached them with the rest of the guards around him, and quickly adverted his gaze. Their looks where those not of hostility, but that of careful wisdom. They stared at him as if he were an outsider, a stranger, and in many ways, he was.

He stopped a few steps before them, and bowed to the king. "Your graces, the Westerlands are yours and so is Casterly Rock." he respectfully spoke, and the youngest of the group let out a light laugh, and her husband spoke next, "Thank you Hill, your welcome was the first proper one to be given upon entering this mountain. You may rise."

The plainly dressed man got up, and saw Aegon extend his arm towards the couple: "These are our uncle Daemavon and aunt Maenna; brother and sister to my lord father." the man came up to him, no doubt judging him. When he spoke, his voice was that of hardened commander, and older than what a man his age would posses: "You are the natural born nephew of Loren Lannister?" he nodded at him, remembering the Valyrian curtesy to hold eye contact while talking, "You are correct your grace." unexpectedly, he opened his palm, waiting for him to shake it.

Tyren was briefly caught off guard, especially seeing as the older man's face did not soften in the slightest. The bastard bit back a yelp as the Targaryen's armored grip painfully crushed his own nude hand and fingers. His hold was a strong one, and his eyes did not diminish in their thunderous glare.

Slowly, they broke away and retraced their arms, and then Maenna stepped in front of him, which caused him to dip his head as honor and good manners would demand it.   
Unlike her husband, she did not offer her hand to be kissed by him, as it would be common to do, nor did she do anything else other than stare at him, her gaze guarded and cold just as well as her significant other.

"Gaomagon ao shifang issa udra?" the dragoness asked, tilting her head slightly so that a couple of rogue braids could slide off a he bladed plates that protected her neck and collarbone.

Tyren grit his teeth behind his lips as he scoured his memories to translate the words, this not being an easy task as there a few terms that were still foreign to him, but he managed to compose a short and respectful answer: "Kessa, aōha dārōñe." even if she was physically smaller than him, her presence and temperament was one that rivaled the dragons.

Maenna's head cocked backwards, a different sliver of interest was mixed amidst her war less greeting: "ȳdrassis valyrio eglie?" she asked again.  
The bastard knew that it would be best not to give false impressions, so he took the wise path and did not inflate his ego, "Mirri hen ziry." he bowed to her once more.  
He spotted the ruthless Visenya giving him an unreadable gaze... and Tyren could not tell whether she was pleased with his efforts or disappointed.

The ethereal woman stepped back, watching him with a pointed gaze as always, as her hands clasped against the steel of her back. "Good. Since the introductions are over, let us discuss why it is that you have been called." the monarch of the Seven Kingdoms spoke as he turned to look at the great mass of marble and riches that represented the power of the Lannisters.

"Casterly Rock shall become a new property of house Targaryen; as such, all of the maids, servants blacksmiths and any other kind of inhabitant shall be moved to Lannisport to a free home. While I personally praise your ancestors' history and great many a deed, it is spitefully true to say that these halls and rooms are overwhelmingly decorated... some would say more so than the palaces do the dragonlords of old."

The rider of Balerion opened his arms to encompass the entirety of the high ceiling that was covered in bright murals and more opulence, "But such taste is not one that is shared with us Targaryens. That is why the entire castle will be remodeled and change to fit a style that is more akin to our preferences."

Tyren nodded, "I have been told the that you lived for the majority of your namedays in the lower half of the fortress, and thus you must be quite familiar with that part of the Rock, yes?" "You are right once more your grace."

King Aegon nodded, and stared pensively out to the great, large hall in front of them. "That is good to hear. You will be responsible for the organization of the all of the allocations for workers and such in the depths of the Rock. Your task will be that of making sure that all of the institutions present in this keep be manned properly, and you will report the changes needed and requested by said craftsmen and laborers as they please." the dragons seemed intent on changing the Rock as they pleased.

Tyren had no doubt that they would likely create a new building... a nest of some sorts for the dragons to properly rest when they wanted. There was the space to do that, in fact, the majority of the rocky terrain atop the steel slopes of the towering mountain was not utilized in any way; which left much to be used, even in the event of trial and error.

"I will see that it is done your grace." "There is another matter as well that must be addressed, concerning Lady Laurane." Tyren stiffened upon hearing that name. He wanted no part in interacting with that woman.

"If I may ask, your grace, what is the problem?" Visenya spoke next, causing him to turn his head to her: "She has resisted any attempts on our part to properly talk like civilized people; the lioness will not even open her mouth to utter a single word, such is her defiance." "She is unwilling to cooperate, and naturally that goes against our best interests. I assume that you did not have the closest of friendships, but she knows you far more than she does us. With that in mind, you will work and see to it that she acts with the proper dignity that a lady of her rank should have."

A biting remark wanted to escape his tightly shut mouth; Tyren already knew now, that any strategy that would incorporate him was doomed to end in defeat. Laurane Lannister was a woman who had looked down upon him for as long as he could remember.

She had no familial attachments to his father Tygett as Loren did, and as such she had no qualms in rendering his existence as uncomfortable and unwelcome as possible. Even though she was of house Prester of birth, her cunning was one that resembled the classical Lannister attitude: that of playing the game perfectly, and forcing her adversaries to succumb first.

"You will be capable of reigning her in, Hill?" Daemavon asked, but it wasn't said in a jeering manner; his posture was one that expressed supremacy over him. "I cannot make promises your graces. And in all honesty, sending me will not be the best of approaches... but if it is what you want than I shall do so at your behest." the bastard kneeled, Brightroar shifting uncomfortably to press against his side as he did, "I will take my leave to do so now, my king."

"Proceed onwards then Hill." the tall Targaryen ordered, and he bowed once again, before turning around and leaving the Golden Hall, after having been in it for the first time in all of his life.

The swordsmen at his flanks did not speak as usual, so he contemplated his words and situation in silence. It was evident that Laurane was being held inside one of the ornate chambers for important guests, because they weren't walking to lift to descend to the dark dungeons.

Tyren already knew what it was that awaited him on the other side of the finely built door, and as the guard that was posted there opened it for him, he touched the sword's handle.

The Hill looked around the large room, spotting a lone figure sitting on one of the chairs outside of the balcony that overlooked the bay around Lannisport. Silently, he came to her, and stopped short of the entrance.

"My lady, the passing years have treated you well."

Slowly, her head turned, the long locks of gold blonde her flowing with the light breeze of the sea wind. At the age of thirty and two namedays, she held a beauty that many other ladies half her years would die to achieve.  
The thin line in which her delicate lips rested turned the serene look on her superb features to a hateful glare.

Even if it was clear that Laurane was livid, she remained composed, not letting her boiling rage take over her.  
"Where you the one to do the foul deed?" she whispered as he sat down in the chair next to her.

"Yes." he answered as they both directed their gazes to beautiful visage in front of them. "I am sure that you are most happy in having murdered my husband..." she chuckled: "And to think that the Seven have condemned us to bow to a bastard..."

Tyren sighed, pressing the bridge of his nose against his steepled hands as he leaned forward. "I did not ask for the position, and I do not want it." he said quietly.  
"Nor did I want to kill Loren, I took no pleasure in the action. But..." he gave her a gentle nod, "If it helps some, he died muttering your name." he placed a hand on her shoulder and she went completely rigid. Hill half expected her to whirl around and slap him across the face, but she merely threatened him: "Do not presume to touch me, ever again."

"Of course, pardon me." he retracted the limb. "I will not admit that I will succeed in convincing you to have proper talk with the Targaryen conquerors... but as things are, it is the best and only option; for all of us." she laughed fully this time, but it was humorless: "You say that as if it were simple matter, and for you it most certainly is. Even while tainted by sin, you stand in light, about to receive honorary blessings as well as lordship of this mighty mountain."

"I told you that I have no want of it. You could have it for all I care Lady Laurane." "Please do not treat me like a fool; we both know deep down inside that that is a lie." Tyren face assumed a bothered expression as he kept staring at the tiled stone of the balcony: "Then you haven't been paying attention to me my lady. Had you, then you would have realized a long time ago that I had no such aspirations to usurp the Lion's ancestral seat."

"But now you will." she insisted, "Not out of my own choice." "In the end, it won't matter. The dragons will rule the Westerlands in truth won't they?" "Yes." "Unfortunately for _us_ , you are naught but a lamb dressed in a lion's clothing..."   
Tyren understood the metaphorical meaning behind her particular choice in the pronoun: it was to signify the entire dynasty of the Lannisters as a whole, every cadet branch and member that had ever lived, and all of those that remained.

"If King Aegon will legitimize me, I will be forced to wear the coat of gold and red." "That won't change anything, and you know it;" she quickly cut in, aggressively pushing back against his neutral statement. "Boy, even if you do not wish to cause our family more anguish, you still are, indirectly at least."

"What can I do about it? What difference does it make if the dragoness marries me or one of your acquired cousins?" he spoke silently. "At least there would be some sliver of honor in that, alas, we are now forced to bear the consequences of having a man born on the wrong side of marriage be the last of our dynasty."

But they were both aware of what was going to happen, and there was nothing that could be done to change that.

"What was the name of the foreign conqueror that claimed you as a prize?" she suddenly asked him, "The one that fights and behaves more so a man than a lady at court." Laurane added as to give him a clearer picture.

"Visenya Targaryen." the golden haired woman turned her eyes to look at him: "Then go and retrieve her. I shall speak only to her and in the privacy of these chambers." Tyren raised an eyebrow in starch surprise: he had not been expecting this development at all.

"As this remains between us both, thank you... this is the wisest choice." the proud lioness wrinkled her nose, "Then you be best with completing the task boy. You surely would not want to displease your new mistress." he did not answer to the blatant insult, as he knew that he would only be playing into her hands and proving her long held convictions of him being naught more than a violent beast.

"I bid you farewell milady." Tyren concluded as he turned to walk away from the balcony, and back inside the luxurious room, passing through the thick and sturdy door once more.  
The kinslayer did not know what to expect, but viewing what he knew of the Valyrian's temperament, and Lady Laurane's iron will for independence, he could only imagine what a battle of wits between the two would look like.

And he would not be surprised if it would eventually come to using blades and such.

**Visenya Targaryen V**

"So the boy is to be the sire of my nephews and nieces?" Maenna Targaryen asked as she walked alongside her brother and her favorite niece.

They had been traversing through the many hallways of the castle proper of Casterly Rock, as the sights gifted through the visage of the beautiful glass windows was indeed an impressive one, though it fell short when compared to the sight offered by riding a dragon.

"Kessa sodjisto." Visenya answered as they kept walking, the many servants scattering back and forth as they set to complete their many duties imposed by the newly arrived dragons. Her face frowned in something akin to discuss as she observed the thick walls.

Already, she could spot a few flaws in their design, which had mostly to do that they not constructed out of the durable and hardened Black Stone that was so common and frequently used to build the great, twisting and towering shapes of the newly founded holdfasts around the Crownlands and edges of its neighboring kingdoms.

While the defenses that were in place would do their job well, nothing took away from the fact that they could still be improved upon. Another issue was the fact that there were very few internal gates that could block the access of many other important rooms.  
She was not a fool to know that they had been removed many years ago; for the exact reason that they wouldn't be needed in the most well defend part of the Rock.

But to the Targaryen, such a notion was one that would cripple its users: even if their enemies somehow managed to arrive all the way up here and past the well guarded lifts, they would have free reign to easily overcome the meager defenses that the castle proper held.

In essence, the Rock was prosperous and had a very good foundation and overall composition, but it would need to be heavily refined in order to make it a landmark worthy of the title like the ones during the age of Old Valyria. And then they would seek out to improve Lannisport itself, much for the same reasons stated previously.

"He slew Loren Lannister in a trial by combat yes?" "You are correct Daemavon, and he performed better than I expected." she was pleased indeed with the way that he acted, and if he continued to obey her commands and act as loyally as he did until now then she would convince her brother to give him the Lannister name, and would then be the Lord Consort of Casterly Rock.

If he remained submissive and impassive as he was, then their plans would come to fruition even faster. "He has adequate skill, that is clear." the young Targaryen said as they came upon the open clearing of a courtyard, and then to the Godswood that was present. Even if the Lannisters followed the Seven, their first king, the legendary Lann the Clever from the Age of Heroes was of the descent of the First Men.   
Thus the Old Gods where honored with this offering, and the weirwood tree that covered a large slab of rock seemed to extend its branches and roots over the other foliage and plants, almost as if suffocating them beneath its great white mass. The carved face of it bled red sap through its eyes, almost as if it where crying.

Here, they could freely converse in the silence present over the grounds, and had no need to worry about any spies or gossiping servants to hear their talk.

"My family, I know that you wish to settle in these rich lands as I have, and because of this we will discuss your choice in which keep to claim for yourselves." Visenya spoke, surprising them both with the offer.

"Child, we need not another home, this one will do just fine." but the youngest of the three could not be wavered from her intentions: "No, you are both deserving; we could have a new keep built, or you could take an already existing one, as I have done myself."

The loving couple shared a look of discussion, before Maenna directed gentle words to her: "We will listen to your suggestion my little zaldrīzes." and Visenya allowed a small smile to come forth on her lips at hearing the affection name with witch her aunt always called her.

Out of all the members of the Targaryen family, Vaghar's rider resembled them the most in personality: they shared many of the same traits and brilliant, calculating mind, though to a slightly lesser degree than her; but they were both very proud to see her grow into the strong, and ruthless warrior that she was now. She would do more good in these lands than the Lannisters would ever have been capable of accomplishing.

"Castamere." Visenya stated simply as she took a seat on one of the overgrown roots that sprouted from the stone. Daemavon and Maenna shared a look of uncertainty: "You are sure?"   
"Yes, the Reynes will likely pose problems in the future, and will try to undermine our children and their children as well. I fear that they will never be safe and secure unless we remove the most powerful contenders to the seat of power of the Westerlands."

"They are the second richest family in Westeros, and one of the most influential in this kingdom; how will we find a way to depose them then?" Visenya adopted a pensive look.

"Several things can happen... perhaps Lord Lorgar will be found guilty of treason; if need be he could also suffer an unfortunate incident while out hunting in the lush and dense forests. We are not limited to a single option." "That would be wise: with the second strongest house removed from the game, converting the smallfolk to Valyria's gods will be easier."

The dragoness hummed, allowing herself to rest easy for a little as she watched the leaves of the trees flutter in the wind. "I presume that you are already aware that a new vassal house will soon be placed at Cornfield to replace the Swyfts." "Kessa, they will be of close Valyrian descent?" Vaghar's master nodded.

Maenna wrapped her fingers around her husband's gauntleted ones, "I only wish we could have some dornish red; this is an occasion worthy of celebrating."

"Careful dear, we must not get ahead of ourselves: both the Reach and Westerlands are the kingdoms with the most influence from the Faith. Instating the new belief will be noticeably harder here than in the areas around the Blackwater." the man stated as he gently stroked his beard, thinking of what would need to be done upon acquiring ownership over the old keep.

"You speak wisely Daemavon; that is why I am setting in motion several traps and misgivings so that the Kennings, Presters, Seretts and Tarbecks befall a similar fate as the red lions." "My, you certainly are interesting yourself in bringing back the old ways." the warrior queen as she was called by many, smiled sharply: "There is much opportunity in these lands... I read in the recounts that many of our ancestors were afraid of the gold of Casterly Rock, for it was supposedly cursed; but it is time to shed light upon this prophecy, and reclaim what would have rightfully been hours millennia ago."

They remained there, comfortably talking about all manner of things and subjects, whether they had been new strategies or ideas to be implemented was of no great heed, but inevitably, the conversation returned to a point that had been brushed off for some time: "Will you try for child again?" Visenya softly asked with a tone of voice that was very unlike of her, and by many considered to be unachievable because of her ruthlessness.

Maenna shifted a little as she placed one of her hands on her protected abdomen, "Me and Daemavon have given it thought... we... I have been afraid of what could happen to the next young hatchling... after what happened to poor little Aemon..." the older Targaryen wrapped his arm around his beloved sister, clearly remembering the little face of his firstborn.

Visenya let out a small sigh at the memory of the young babe whose life was stripped away far too early. "My apologies sodjisto, I should not have reminded you of such thoughts..." "Do not worry Visenya, you are not at fault." as if sensing their sadness, their mounts flew over them, letting out small roars of melancholy.

The sight of the dragons brought a sad smile to Maenna's otherwise breathtaking face: "Ordêmmōr and Syïar are spending more time together... I suspect that we could see a new batch of eggs in the very near future." "The companions for the future Targaryens..." the conqueror whispered as she too called out to Vaghar, observing her majestic body and form as she twisted herself around the other two dragons, lightly playing with each other.

"Your graces." a voice called from a few dozen feet away, and Visenya's taloned fingers instinctively wrapped around Dark Sister as she whirled around, her furious lilac eyes scanning the entrance of the godswood as Daemavon and Maenna did the same.

The Lannister bastard did not move from where he was, clearly knowing better than to disturb the Valyrians whilst they were in the company of one another.

"Hill, what is it?" the dragoness questioned him as she strode to him, her braided hair swaying behind with each determined step. The younger man bowed to her, "I have come after speaking to Lady Laurane. She wishes to have words with you, your grace." he informed her as their eyes met again.

"That is good news." she turned around and said something in High Valyrian, knowing that was too fast and complicated for Tyren to translate. "Come Hill, accompany me to your uncle's widow."

The brown haired lion followed closely behind her and did talk to her, opting instead to remain quiet as a set of guards protected the royal from assassinations and sudden assaults.

In a manner of minutes, they were back at the large chambers that housed the grieving woman. Visenya gave her betrothed a pointed glare when she noticed that he had stopped away from the door: "What is your reason for not approaching?" "She wishes to talk to you only your grace... and I do fear that she will refuse to speak if I am brought in her presence once more."  
"Very well, stay here and do not move." he bowed his head, and the dragon entered the room.

The deposed queen was seated in one of the chairs next to the spent hearth, body shifting slightly as she heard the door close behind her.

Visenya walked to her and sat down in the seat opposite to her. No words were spoken, but there was certain tension between them. A lioness was confronting her better, seeking to achieve dominance.

"You have my gratitude for receiving my presence Lady Laurene." "And I thank you for coming at my behest Queen Visenya... or is it Princess?" there was no change in the Targaryen's composed demeanor.

"Let us speak plainly Prester; coy comments and sly insults aside will not do much to help you in this battle." the older, but still beautiful woman smirked, "You seem younger than what your age would suggest... the blood of the Freehold runs strong in your veins your grace." "Courtesy of the dragons, Lady Laurane."

It was a different duel, one that used wits and wisdom as its weapons of offense and defense; swords and armor would do her no favors in this match; but Visenya was not easy to submit, and matched her strikes.

"So I have heard that the bastard is to be your husband." "Yes." Laurane sighed tiredly, crossing an arm onto the armrest of the chair: "You truly are a cruel conqueror your grace, the stories and hushed whispers do not do it justice."

"It is a necessary price to pay to win over enemies like you." "A different breed then." the fair skinned lady spoke, observing the Valyrian that stared at her with piercing crystals.   
"When do you plan to marry the boy? Is there an official date?"

"Not at the moment, there are more pressing matters at hand." "Then you will find that I agree wholeheartedly on your opining ."  
Remaining collected, Visenya prodded the lioness, "You wished to speak to me about something." "Yes."

"I am listening." the dragoness spoke calmly; "What will happen of me?" she took in a measured breath and answered: "You will be given as spouse to a trusted commander, you will marry and settle in a minor castle, away from Feastfires keep." it was a first step to separate the woman from her family of origin, to isolate her from any possible allies.

"You will condone yourself to the duties of wife- "Speak truthfully Targaryen, and let us not make jests of each other's wisdom. We both know that I will soon meet my end in a moon's turn, am I not right?"

Visenya's lips twitched upwards, "And how did you discover that?" "Because it would be a fool's gamble to let me live, and I know that even though you are younger than me, your mind is still sharp enough to realize what are the necessary steps to assert control over the Westerlands."

"And from your tone I suppose that you are experienced in this art?" the dragonrider spoke, leaning her back against the soft, padded cushion of the chair. "More than you could know. It took much work and sweat, but in the end I rose victorious in the competition, enough so that Loren chose me as his bride."

"You and I are the same, your grace. We both have the legacy do our houses at our hearts... and you, the legacy of an empire as well." she chuckled to herself, "You would have made an excellent Lannister had you naught the Valyrian features... such traits are very desired in the lions." Visenya mirrored her action, and the two, powerful women settled in a momentary truce.

"You are every inch the opportunist, Lady Laurane." "There is no other way than this... the Gods, whether they be the Seven or your own foreign ones have seen to it that this realm be sculpted that way. To live a long life, and to be remembered calls for the usage of every weapon available."

The dragon nodded her head: "Those are wise words my lady." "Learnt from years of experience." a silence settled in next, as they refrained from offering each other words.

"What of the boy?" "I'm sorry?" "Hill, why did you choose him?" Visenya straightened her back, as her taloned gauntlets came to rest between each other, creating a light noise as the Valyrian Steel touched.

"Convenience, and opportunity." "I can see your thoughts regarding this... but there are more favorable matches..." "He will do just fine."

The other woman wrapped a couple of her long locks around her index finger, idly playing with them as she sipped some of the wine that was inside the silver cup in her hand. "Tyren will disappoint you. With time and age, you will learn how he is truly like."

"I believe I know him well enough already." the lioness smiled "So did I; that was what I had once thought." she said cryptically, and continued to speak once she saw Visenya giving her a curious glance.

"I know that the boy is innocent, and that he would never truly want to usurp his betters; yes, he is not to blame for what his father did... and during the years in which he grew from a trembling toddler to the young man that was exiled away I saw what he craved the most: a mother."

"You could have been one to him." "I will not deny that on my part; yes, a small aspect of my conscious wanted to help him, it saddens to heart to see a small boy act so dutiful and be so lonely, wishing to not have that cursed title." she pursed her lips as her eyes wandered off into the past, "Do you know why it is that Loren and I had him sent away from the Rock?"

Naturally, Visenya shook her head no, waiting for Laurane to continue. "The boy had tried to escape, and would succeed in doing so, had it not been for a dutiful guard. He was so furious in that moment, much to himself, much to the man that had prevented his path to freedom. But alas he received some form of happiness once we decided to let him be, at least momentarily." "But you still held him chained to you." the dragoness concluded.

"Precisely so: although he is the son of a lowborn maid, he still has the blood of the kings in his veins. Even if a bastard, it would be a mockery to the Lannister name for him to be treated as such. That is why he was taught near all of the same lessons that we trueborn attend, and that was why he was kept here at Casterly Rock, while many a noble would have him sent away, never to be seen again."

"It is tragic, for Tyren is a good person deep down inside, and he is dutiful... unfortunately for him, there are many dangers in this realm... which do not make distinctions between parent less children and other." she trailed off, looking at the various paintings that decorated the room.

"Why are you telling me this?" the Targaryen asked, her platinum eyebrows frowning in the slightest measure. "Take this as a token of good luck, from one Lady of the Rock to the next. You may think that he will be cowered and controlled, and for a period he will... but," she paused to drink some more.

"When he will realize that you are using him, taking advantage of his liberty and life, he will become enraged, and do something brash." she added in a softer tone, "He believes you... he truly thinks that this will give him some kind of new possibility. If you treat him as we did, he shall react worse than he has already done."

"Hill will have everything that he could possibly desire. There is no need to attempt such foolishness." "But answer me honestly know: do you love him?"

A moment passed before the answer was given: "No." Laurane shifted backwards, "Then what I said will come to pass. He is naught but a tool to you... a domesticated beast even, and he will act wildly when the time comes."  
"He will not be given the chance to do so." the woman sighed, "The way he acts, he will become detached from all. I have seen boys his type grow up to be spiteful and lonesome. The road that you have taken, Visenya Targaryen, will be one riddled with holes and many shortcomings."

The Valyrian began to think of the possibilities, on how to best prevent them from happening. "If you are worried," the words broke her out of her thoughts, "then do not be. The boy will not do anything to attack you, or cause immediate harm to others, lest they force his hand."

"Tyren is not one to raise his arms against people, killing L- she paused, swallowing a little as a tear threatened to escape her eye, "Killing Loren has affected him deeply, and he is now lost. I do not care for, much less feel any mercy for him: he slew my husband, and I loved that man... for that I will never be able to forgive him. But his actions which were spurned by you will have long lasting consequences." Visenya nodded her head, contemplating what had been said.

"How will I die?" she asked then, "How is it that you will dispose of me?" the Targaryen stared at her: "How do you wish for it to happen?"

"Peacefully, in my sleep. Some poison will be enough. I will at least be at peace." Visenya could respect her bravery in acting composed, even when knowing that her days where numbered short.

"Where do you want to be buried?" she asked, procuring herself some of the wine as well. "If possible, near Feastfires: there is a small patch of land, which is covered in flowers. There you will find a lone pine tree. When the sun sets past the horizon, the tall wood will split it in two. It is a beautiful image to witness." she spoke the last part in a whisper, no doubt picturing the sight.  
The dragon too did her best to imagine the place, and found herself curious in seeing it with her own violet eyes.

"I have no quarrel that it is, my lady. I will see that your request is honored." she spoke honestly, as the other woman gave her a grateful nod. "Thank you, your grace. While we have been sworn enemies for long now; you are still human enough to satisfy another's dying wish." "Think nothing of it. It is the least that I can do for ordering your demise."

They finished the bottle of liquid and stood up, "If that is all that you have to tell me, then I shall return to managing this household." "I pray that you will succeed then, where I have failed." they exchanged the most basic of courtesies and parted ways.

The Valyrian was once more thinking about this new information, as her gaze came to rest on Tyren, who had remained next to the door. "Your grace." he bowed.

"Emagon ao ipradārin?" she asked him, and watched as he hesitated for a moment, likely weighing his options. "No, your grace, I have not." "Daor." she quickly and strictly corrected him.

"I understand your grace." "See to that you consume something. And practice more of your High Valyrian: your pronunciation is horrible." he moved a little from her critique." "Yes, your grace." she did not respond, but walked away, her guard coming to circle behind her.

Visenya wanted to go spend some time with Vhagar, and maybe even fly around the clouds. But it was near luncheon now, and try as she might, her stomach rumbled, clearly signaling her hunger. There would still be time to do that later, among other things as well.

**Aegon Targaryen III**

The son of Valyria grunted as he pushed against his uncle's blade, causing him to move backwards. He took the brief window of time to catch his breath, but Daemavon was not called the 'Dark Bane' for no good reason, and he was upon him immediately after.

With sparks their Valyrian Steel swords clashed against each other, Blackfyre by one side and Night Blood at the other. Both were extraordinary weapons, nearly equal in build, but the black blade with red markings was slightly shorter and thinner, and was this capable of moving faster.

The young king could feel his own heartbeat as he struggled to keep up with the pace of the more experienced warrior. Daemavon was a renown swordsman in all of the Crownlands and farther still.

He had taught him what the master at arms at Dragonstone had not, and had shown him techniques that were of frequent use in the Freehold. As such, flurry of spinning strikes might have seemed confusing if not hypnotic to most, but Aegon had learned to read the patterns in the attacks, and was able to try and block.

Alas, it was very much evident that he was getting pushed back farther and farther as the battle progressed. But as always, his uncle proved to have a few strives up his sleeve, and he did not expect the sudden jab to his solar plexus.

A gust of wind escaped from his lips and he stumbled backwards; his chest was fine, not a gaping hole to his insides was on it thanks to the heavy padding that he wore over it.

From the side, as Maenna and Rhaenys were watching, one chuckled as the other looked on worriedly. "Daemavon, my love, try not to hurt our nephew too badly; I fear that Rhae will never forgive us if you do."

The man laughed, "I wouldn't dream of it!" he stroked his beard, an action that he was common doing ever since he had grown it. "Are you ready?" he asked the younger Targaryen. Aegon for his part held a hand up as he felt as if he was going to vomit his fast.   
While Night Blood hadn't pierced the resistant chain mail that covered his flesh, the force behind the blow was enough to make him groan.

"Give me a moment..." he panted, wiping the sweat from his forehead, "Your skills have yet to dull, even at the age of forty namedays." he stated, readying himself once more.

"That is because I keep them sharp Egg. Now come, show me what you have learned." and so he did, or at least attempted to as the dragon soon found himself with the tip of his opponent's longsword pointing at his neck.

"Do you yield?" "Yes." he laughed as the other grasped his forearm. "You have gotten better Aegon, I am proud of you, well done." he praised him and the monarch felt as excited as if he were a green boy once more. To receive such high compliments from a fighter renown as Daemavon was indeed prestigious.

His beloved sister walked up to his side and carefully looked him over, "I am fine Rhae, truly." "I would be shattered had you been dealt another scar Egg. You know that I worry over your safety." she admonished him, "Then do not do so. We both know that our uncle would never do that."

"Still," she hugged him and kissed his lips, smelling his odor, "It won't stop me..." lovingly stated.  
Armored footsteps were heard on the stone and the group turned around to see as Visenya came forth the elaborate practice yard.

"Ah, sister, do you wish to test Dark Sister's steel against us?" "Perhaps on another date; but I have come to eat the midday meal with you." she explained as they gathered together and began to walk away, their presence once more protected by the loyal warriors at their sides.

Soon, they were feasting on delicacies of meats and vegetables, and sharing idle talk.   
"Your kepa is seeing as the construction of King's Landing continues. The swords of our conquered enemies have been sent once again to add to the Iron Throne." "Good. Soon enough we will have established a new city, to be the biggest of them all in Westeros."

"How many people can it house at the moment?" Rhaenys asked, "From Aerion's report, little more than half a million, with another half expected to be made available once more of the districts are built.  
"And the sewage systems are being constructed in accordance yes? I most definitely would not want our capital and seat of power to constantly smell of excrements and foul shit." Maenna voiced her opinion, causing more chuckles to be heard.

"Uncle, you have brought many workers and stonemasons from the Crownlands yes?" "Of course, there are all kinds of people with all of the crafts you could need. I have also brought a few scribes and printers so that a couple of printing presses may be built in Lannisport." Visenya nodded.

"On another note, many of smallfolk are now calling the city Queensguard, in honor of the dragon queen that has claimed Casterly Rock." "Should we rename it?" Aegon asked, as the others turned to him: "It seems fitting."

"What about New Valyria?" "Hmm, yes... that would do good." "Then it is settled. Let us eat some pie." Maenna pinched his cheek, like she was always ought to do, "Of course dear Egg, of course."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaomagon ao shifang issa udra= Do you understand my words?  
> Kessa, aōha dārōñe = Yes, your grace  
> ȳdrassis valyrio eglie =Do you speak High Valyrian?  
> Mirri hen ziry = Some of it  
> Emagon ao ipradārin = Have you eaten?
> 
> So yes, we have some new OCs in this, as well as a deeper look into Tyren's upbringing. Please let me know what you thought about this, and please, please drop a comment, for they truly make me happy. I am content with responding to any questions that you may have, so do not be afraid to ask them.  
> Next chapter will hopefully come out next saturady, until then.


	6. Whispers and Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We take a look on how the Valyrians have changed the capital of the West, as well as what Tyren and company are doing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, it is likely that there are a few mistakes here and there, so please bear with me.

**Visenya Targaryen VI**

"By our estimations, the lower docks will be refitted and worthy of proper recognition in a moon's turn. The stonemasons and carpenters have worked at a marvelous speed." the master of craft Talaemon Malnaris spoke as he listed off all of the changes that were being brought to New Valyria.

"Good. Make sure to gift every one of the men with a gold dragon, they've earned it." the Dragon of the West spoke, her eyes concentrated on the many scrolls and documents in front of her.

Logistics the lot of them, upon supplies and materials, costs and payments as well as letters and reports. And that was not to exclude the new system of spies and watchers that Visenya had begun to put in place over the Westerlands.

Slowly, her vision was beginning to come to fruition, and she would be able to effectively know of every little secret that these lords kept hidden. It was amazing, truly amazing what had been accomplished in the last year: thanks to the influx of Valyrian settlers, the capital of the former kingdom was turning into a haven of knowledge and power.

The past generations of Targaryens had sent expeditions to the ruins of Old Valyria, in the hopes of recovering more arcane treasures and riches. Each one of these expeditions was successful and brought back pieces of the Old Freehold. The Targaryens of the past had initially withheld these techniques and teachings of arts, but now, Visenya was making full use of them.

New Valyria, formerly known as Casterly Rock, had been completely renovated: the original castle had been expanded upon and reinforced with new structures that put the previous design to shame: the mountain fortress resembled Dragonstone but was even farther from it still. The black stone that bent and shaped in fantastic formations was used to create tall towers and complexes; the curtain walls were rebuilt using internal pillars of Valyrian Steel, and the internal passages and halls were repurposed to become more efficient and better defensible.

The many round and exotic towers held defensive machines above them, including catapults, trebuchets, and ballistas, and they the levels beneath them held all kind of ammunitions, including jars of wildfire and the newly crafted bombs of black powder. There were also fears built into the stone floor, to allow these deadly contraptions to easily turn and direct their aim. And naturally, all of the walls and exposed sides were covered in additional plates of Valyrian Steel.

Truly, the outside and upper part of the Rock now resembled more of a living city; the rest of the mountain had been built upon and expanded, allowing for the expansion of more buildings, barracks, and training yards. That was not counting the inside of it all, for the many forges had been rebuilt in accordance to the needs and necessities of being able to steadily produce great quantities of Dragon steel armor and weaponry. More cellars were built, the storage rooms were made larger and a library was added while the sept was converted to a monastery to pray to the Valyrian Gods.

The treasuries had been fortified further, and even the insides of the Rock had been changed to match the Valyrian setting: there were no obscene ornaments of jewels and wealth anymore, everything was much more simple and plain; resembling the appearance of the buildings that were constructed during the days of the Freehold.

And finally, there came the matter of magic: this entire formation of high rocks had received an abundant amount of enchantments, for various reasons and purposes. Never, in the three thousand years since the Doom, had there been such a concentration of powers. The result was a new, palpable presence of arcane might, alive and beating in the very air as the symbols containing these wonderful powers would faintly glow.

New Valyria was a testament to everything that the Freehold stood for, and it honored it, it honored the memory of the other thirty-nine dragonlord families, it brought back the wonders of an age long thought to be passed and over.

After many years, the essence of Valyria found a home in the Westerlands of Westeros... a new home, and a new opportunity to live on.

All of this had come to a tremendous cost, one that would bring even the richest of empires to their knees and economic disaster: the cost of gold. At the moment, the price for all of these innovations and progressive changes had been estimated to be around twenty million gold dragons; that was a staggering number.

It had placed a large dent in their coffers, and a noticeable one at that. But it mattered little because this was where the conqueror had taken advantage of her situation: the large and deep mines of metals. All of the spent gold would be eventually returned to them tenfold. It was all worth it, and if need be, Visenya could always order the vassal houses to pay a tribute.

But as stated previously, it did not matter. The autonomous fortress had everything that a king could desire and more. Then there was the matter regarding the city of Queensguard; just as for New Valyria, the enormous settlement was developing under a similar pattern, albeit a slower one.

Much of the same as before was being implemented here, and the trade and wealth of the city boomed as a result: the sale of merchants and goods was high, the exchange of products with other cities in the distant lands of Essos garnered much renown, and the quality of life was being vastly improved upon. Schools were being built, allowing education to all of those of a young age, the sewers had been bettered and so had the city guard and buildings. The districts closer to the massive mountain were those which resembled the buildings and construction in the style of Old Valyria, and those were by far the richest and most prosperous parts of Queensguard.

And slowly, the other areas were succumbing to the change as well, one by one.

It was a paradise made real, and for Visenya, the statement could not have been any more true: as she walked the halls and simply looked at the walls and murals that immortalized important events and battles of the old times, she felt at peace, even more so when her fingers would trace over the magic of walls, crafted by dragonfire and many more things.

Her dream was becoming a reality, the masterful, wondrous places and lands that she read of in her books were now being actively built as she breathed.

The chambers, these rooms, they felt right to her, as if they had always been meant to be ruled by a dragon, and now, she was imposing her rightful dominion.

"You are free to go Malnaris. See to that an order for five new warships is placed, and make sure that one of the dragon maesters takes measurements of the time which the shipyards take to craft then." "Yes, your grace." it felt good to talk in High Valyrian instead of Common. It proved soothing and relaxing to her ears.

Everything was going perfectly, but Visenya knew not to get lax with how she was reforming the Westerlands: she knew that the process would still take much time and that she couldn't afford to rush it beyond its needed pace.  
There was still more planning and scheming to do regarding the other influential houses, and she could not install new noble lineages so soon between each other, because that would only increase the amount of distrust and suspicion from these Andal men.

Signing her name on the final parchment regarding a new trade route, Visenya sighed and rose, feeling her back gently pop after sitting in the same position for so long.

One of the servants came forward, already placing all of those documents together in a folder and tying it shut. "Take those to the others, in the guarded room that is down the hall and to the left. The rightmost chest still has some space in it." "Yes your grace, it will be done."

Visenya walked away from the elaborate solar, and into a long, winding staircase that was open thanks to the short columns that held the ceiling in place, thus creating a few artificial windows.

Briefly, she looked out and saw not much of the outside, for today was a stormy day, a clear indication that the winter was approaching. There wasn't much to look at other than the dark grey clouds, so the dragoness quickly moved away from the flight of stairs and into a narrow hall, the several men at arms giving her bows of respect as she passed.

Winter... many of their best dragon maesters, named like that because they weren't taught at the Citadel but Dragonstone, was convinced in predicting that it would last for two years; but she held no worries for the storage of their foods.  
The new windmills, and irrigation systems, as well as for the new techniques introduced to the smallfolk made sure that this year's bounty was a prosperous and bountiful one; and she noted with a pleasing hum that there never had been such a large harvest in the past. She very much doubted that they would need to purchase more grain, and as things were, there was no need to worry about the short days of snow and ice that were fast approaching.

"Your grace, your grace!" a young boy ran up to her and bowed, his face flustered and red, and a sheen of sweat over him. From the way that he was panting and huffing, she presumed that he had run up the entirety of the Rock's height to get to her. In his hands was a letter, the Targaryen stamp upon it.

"A raven has arrived from King's Landing, for you, your grace." silently, she took it and broke the wax seal, opening the paper to her curious eyes. She noticed that the lad still hadn't left his place, so she fetched a couple of gold coins from her pocket and gifted them to him: "You have done good in retrieving this message." "Thank you, your grace! This... this is a moon's worth of pay!" he exclaimed in joy.

"Now let me be." "Of course your highness, I shall go." finally, she was left alone, and began to read the High Valyrian:

_Vis,_  
_I write to you concerning a matter of moderate interest; recently, there was a convoy of wagons sent up the Kingsroad to then arrive at the Twins. These carriages contained many weapons, suits of steel, and people of our blood. I had them sent there because there is rumor of great movement on the North by the Kings of Winter, and so I thought it best to act with prudence in the face of a possible conflict. But as they traveled, they began to be pestered on by small bands of men, who kept harassing the convoy, so this lead to a change in plans. And they began to travel up the Blue Fork. Then, just out of the outskirts of Fairmarket, the convoy was ambushed by a large group of bandits. None of the precious cargo was stolen, much less damaged, and we received no losses on our side; but upon torture and interrogation, a few of these men have confessed to having been sent from Oldtown. I fear that there is more to this, given that the company of carriages was a well-kept secret. I have organized a thorough investigation to be held by my best men, and have been doing so with our vassals; I advise you to do the same._  
_With love and care, your brother Aegon."_

Visenya held the paper to her hand and placed it in one of the torches that were on the wall so that it burned away, its contents forever lost to everyone but herself.

She had been giving the Reach some form of leeway, but only to first focus on changing the Westerlands. The Targaryens knew that the newly appointed lord paramount, the Tyrells were well disliked among their peers, and not without reason: they had been the Mern's stewards at Highgarden and had opened the gates of the great castle as soon as they spotted the dragon banners. Out of all of the conquered kingdoms, theirs was the weakest claim to supremacy, and many wished to further expand their influence over the fertile soil of the land.

And among those greedy contenders, the Hightowers, Redwynes, and Tarlys stood out the most. The blood of Valyria would have to be careful with what they would do, and she needed to place a few double agents in their territories as soon as it was possible. Visenya kept a particularly keen eye on the Hightowers, and the Citadel.  
It was becoming more evident by the day that the teachings that were held in Oldtown were becoming obsolete compared to those of the Targaryens, as was the case with anything regarding the secrets and knowledge of the Freehold.

No doubt, they were becoming irate and restless at seeing the grasp of their institution slowly weakening on the South.  
They could prove to be quite a nuisance for their coming plans.

But for the moment, the warrior would pay its mind later, for now, she decided that it was time to go see how her uncle and aunt were fairings in governing Castamere.  
So after walking for several minutes, passing by gates, and climbing up flights of stairs she arrived at what was named the Dragonpit, a great, open structure which her beloved Vhagar used to rest and eat the many sheep that were given to tribute.

"And tell Tyren Hill of these orders: he is to look over the donation of money for the new orphanages." "I will go tell him then." replied one of the guard captains that were accompanying her.

Finally, she crossed the massive gate that brought to the inside of the Dragonpit itself. The large stone platform was built so that its shape would be that of a figure with fourteen sides. This was not an accidental particularity, but an intentional one: it was made that way as to pay tribute to the destroyed peninsula, and each wall had been named with the names of the Fourteen Flames.

Even if this large space had been made by human hands, the inside still retained many rocks and natural settlements. It was to better comfort the resting dragon as it made its nest.

Carefully, Visenya stepped over several bones, many shattered into unrecognizable pieces. The ground and stones were blackened considerably, ash present on their hard surfaces.  
It did not take long for her to find her life-bound companion: their bond had seen to that the two could sense each other's presence.

Soon, Visenya saw a great mass, one that was of fire made flesh; that that belonged to a god. Without hesitation, she approached closer until she was standing directly in front of it.

The massive silver scaled dragon unfurled her wings and stretched her long neck; the numerous sharp teeth, nearly as long as a man grown were in full display, the entire beast acted as if it was putting itself in show, demonstrating its great serpentine body and durable hide.

With a small purr, Vhagar lowered her spiked head to have her large snout be rubbed by her rider. "Beloved Vhagar, my loyal friend, how have you been?" Visenya whispered as she rubbed the hard scales with her taloned claws, her eyes staring directly into the dragon's golden ones.

"Shall we soar through the skies? I am sure that Ordêmmōr and Syïar will be content to see you," she spoke as the creature that was on the sigil of her family let out a short growl, one that was of excitement.

And so one of the gargantuan wings was lowered, and Visenya climbed on top of it, reaching the saddle and grasping Vhagar's spikes. "Sovegon." with that simple command, they were up in the air and looking over Queensguard. The Targaryen conqueror could see the tiny forms of many of the people who had stopped what they were doing to observe and point at them.

Sensing the awe in them, Vhagar roared, her shadow covering a good portion of the houses below them.  
"Fly higher Vhagar, let us be alone." and then they were, alone at the top of this world.  
The Targaryen could feel the cold winds of winter brush over her exposed face. It was freezing at these altitudes, but there was no need for anything else: the mighty dragon was warm and hot, creating a perfect countering temperature to balance the frigid one.

**Daemavon Targaryen I**

"M-mi lord, you see, these men have stolen almost all of my cattle!" the old man spoke to the Targaryen, who crossed his arms, "And they were clad in gold and red armor?" "Yes! They were covered in the yellow stuff, and they rode lions, big lions! As tall as those horses that you ride!" the peasant explained, his thin arms waving around as he told his tale.

"They were going to the woods over there, I tried to follow, but they noticed me and so I had to run away." Daemavon, stroked his beard in thought, "And when did this happen?" "Last night milord, I had been sleeping and was woken by loud banging."

"And you did not find your cows." "No, they were being led away! There were over two hundred of those men my lord, I swear, two hundred!" the unfortunate soul spoke, the few teeth that he had left were noticeable indeed.

It was clear that the peasant did not know how to read or write, and he was not cultured: the simple fact that he failed to properly address the new lord of Castamere was proof of that. But Daemavon was not an offender by this, rather, he was surprised with what he had done.

"Following them like that was dangerous and stupid, especially since they are armed. But you were courageous, and no one can fault you for that. You acted very bravely sir... what is your name?" "Baston my lord, I have worked this field since I was a young lad, as did my father, and his father before him."

The white-haired royal looked over ero the humble and small wooden home in which the peasant lived. It seemed as if no one else was there. "Do you not have a family Baston?" he asked, and the frail elder lowered his head, his voice becoming small, "A long time ago, my lord. I had a woman, Cira, she was with me, helped feed the goats and chickens; she bore me a son, Tom. Cira died of a fever from the birth, and Tom of sickness soon after. I have lived alone ever since."

The dragonlord was touched to hear of the simple man's story, and it reminded him of his own family. "I too had a son. He died as well of an illness, and a part of me was changed forever." the old Westerman looked at him with a surprised expression, "It saddens me, my lord... I pray day and night that no father may have to know the loss of his child. I am sorry milord."

"You are the last of your line then?" the old man nodded, "It is only me. After I breathe my final days, no one will work and plow these fields." the Targaryen felt sympathy for this smallfolk, for although they were of different classes and upbringings, they both knew the pain of loss.

"Do you still wish to keep cultivating the soil? To shepherd the cattle and to still work? Even after having done so for more time than required?" the other laughed a little, before coughing.  
"I thank you, my lord, you are a kind man. But I will keep these lands for myself, and collect my harvest one final time. If the fates are good, then I will live to see another summer." the dragon rider fished out a small pouch, "The cows that have been stolen are most likely dead, butchered for their meat. I know that this isn't a lot, but please keep it."

The peasant opened the small sack and took out the many coins inside of it; his dirty fingers wrapped around the gold one, and he lifted it close to his eye so that he could observe it from there. "This is one of the rare times that I have touched gold, my lord. What is the creature on it? I have never seen it before." Daemavon decided to humor him a little: "It is a dragon." "A dragon?" "A great winged beast capable of giving birth to the hottest of flames from its mouth. It is the sigil of my house." the old person looked at him in wonder, "Never in all of my namedays have I heard of such an animal... it is strange indeed."

"Well then, I thank you Baston, your bravery will not be easily, nor soon forgotten." "There is no need for such thing milord. But catch those prowling lions, for they will bring more misery to the other farms around here."

"Your grace, did you find anything new?" Velanorys, his guard asked him in High Valyrian, "I now know for certain that these mysterious men are bandits. The elder over there said that they rode on lions, but his eyes have likely deceived him: we would have heard of this much sooner."

They walked back to their horses as well as to the rest of their escort. "Send some scouts to the forest there, they are bound to find tracks." silently, they mounted their stallions and began to lightly ride on the dirt path. "Your Grace, I cannot help but be concerned." "Of what old wyvern? Speak your mind, you know that we are friends." "I find it worrying that more and more rumors are arising of these groups of bandits wearing the Lannister colors... could they be deserters?"

Daemavon hummed in thought, "Perhaps; not all of the Westermen recognize us as their rulers... it will take time for them to understand of the purge of the septons and septas." "Still, they are attacking the defenseless smallfolk in the open countryside; many a farm have been destroyed and more yet have been put to the flame." "Velanorys," the Targaryen stopped him, "Let us not fret in fighting battles that may not need to be fought; allow us to concentrate and focus on the present." "Yes, you are right."

They stopped at the edges of the towering and dark trees. "Settle camp here men, and begin organizing the guard." the leader of the host spoke, dismounting from the horse and walking away from them. "Give me a moment of peace will you? I need to relieve myself." his friend turned around and stood with his feet planted on the ground, creating a physical barrier between the rest of the world and his lord.

He saw a large shadow journey over the meadow that they were in, and the Valyrian smiled, for above him, his mount flew, ever ready to protect its rider.

After having finished with his business, Daemavon moved back to the rest of the group and waited along with them for the scouts to return.

A couple of hours later, they did, and they soon came to report to him directly: "Your grace, we have found several abandoned campfires and many horse tracks. The bandits are mounted, and from the look of it they are headed towards the Pendric Hills." "Good, then we must alert the Westerlings of this. All of you, return to Castamere and take the rest of the day for yourselves, you are free to go," he instructed the warriors.

The blue-scaled beast landed a few dozen feet away, causing a lot of dust and leaves to fly up around it. Daemavon approached the dragon without any fear and climbed on top of the saddle. "Let us return to Castamere my friend." he gently whispered before taking off.

It was when they were nearing the old mine that Ordêmmōr let out a bellow, piercing the silent land all around them. The man's eyebrow frowned in confusion at his mount's sudden activeness and then heard an equally powerful roar, this one coming from the rocky hill that contained his wealthy castle. A titanic shape flew up from it, its sheer size briefly blocking the sun and its light.  
Once his vision focused, he noticed that the dragon was white, and Daemavon smiled.

"It would seem that Visenya has come to visit..." he softly urged Ordêmmōr to fly closer to the ground, near the front gate of Castamere's outer curtain wall. As soon as they landed, there was already a retinue of guards loyally waiting for him, and silently, they crossed into the keep itself, passing by many armored men and servants.

"Where is my wife?" "In the gardens, your grace." "Thank you." his legs then brought him up a couple of flights of stairs and he emerged over a portion of the castle that had been built to accommodate many plants and trees alike, somewhere exotic, brought here from the farthest corners of the known world; but other than that, the garden that Daemavon found himself walking in was one like any other. He found his radiant sister and their niece both sitting at a table which overlooked a great number of bushes, the red of their roses being that of blood, and their fragrant smell one that put the Targaryen at a sense of ease.

"Maenna, Visenya, it is good to see you once more." he addressed the two beautiful women in front of him, taking a seat as well as he arrived.  
A platter containing several slices of cheese and curated meats lay on the wooden support, and his hand gravitated towards it. "You seem hungry." Maenna commented with humor, "I am famished my dear, I had naught the chance to eat luncheon, much less anything else other than water." he answered as he took a bite of food, its tangy taste blossoming over his tongue and teeth.

"And how did your hunt fare?" the youngest of them asked, displaying her typical straightforwardness and lack of patience, but it was not done so disrespectfully, and Daemavon had to hold in the urge to laugh.  
"I have learned more of these mysterious men, and among other things, I have also made acquaintance with an interesting old fellow that goes by the name of Baston." "Baston?" "Yes, he is a farmer that lives a few leagues southeasts of the Crag."

Visenya steepled her gauntleted fingers as she sat up straighter, "But there is more to this peasant, is there not?" "Aye. He spotted these bandits, trailed after them when they had stolen his cattle. Considering his great age, and lack of family, I was surprised to know that he acted so courageously." "Or foolishly." was the dragoness' short reply.

"I would have said so myself, but Baston possesses honesty, a trait that runs rare in our present-day and age." he continued, happily chewing on a thin slice of dried pork.

"From the remains of their campfires, it would seem as if these bandits are no more than fifty; but they are all armed with castle forged steel, and are terrorizing and raiding the local smallfolk, pillaging their food, and in some cases breeding violence and chaos as they go." "Do we know where it is that they are headed towards?" "Possibly, the Pendric Hills, and that is why I have had a raven be sent to Lord Westerling."

"For how long has this been going on?" the king's sister asked, looking at the two, "A couple of fortnights. At first, it seemed like the normal clan of thieves that always springs up during the peaceful times following war, but it is evident that there is more at play here than what we originally thought." he brushed his lips with a cloth that was conveniently placed near him on the table.

"There is also the fact that all of the reports have the same common trait of having these bandits be decorated with the stems of the golden lion." the dragonlord looked at him then, her violet eyes sharpening as she leaned forward. "A golden lion, you said?" "Yes." Visenya directed her gaze elsewhere, looking out to the rolling plains that were colored light brown and yellow.

"There have been reports of the same things happening in Queensguard... a group of fanatical zealots has risen, they call themselves the Sons of the Rock, and they seek to put a pure-blooded Lannister back on the Lion Throne, so to declare the Westerlands a proper kingdom once more." she paused, getting up to her feet and walking to the edge of the small podium to that they were on.  
"These men have belonged to Loren Lannister's army, hence why they dress in red and yellow. They have been causing some ruckus in the nearby towns. And every now and again, some merchant will disappear and be found with his throat slit and his clothes torn from his body, left to be eaten by the beasts of the wild." she told them.

Her fist tightly clenched over Dark Sister as her mouth curled in a snarl, "These are madmen, all of them... they seek to instill peace and order but bring nothing but ruin. They are useless vermin that do not deserve to be called men." "We will catch them Visenya, we will bring fire and blood to them." she turned to look at her kinsmen, her braids lightly swaying as she did. "We will do so together, as family." Maenna approached her and gently took her hands into her own, staring at her with the same amount of determination.

"And as dragons."

**Tyren Hill VI**

"How do you fare on this morrow Maester Hugar?" the bastard asked the old man.

"Oh! Tyren, I had not seen you enter, please, come in." the several chained links that adorned his robes clinked and jingled as he huddled forward, pulling the younger Westerman to him. "You keep growing more and more each time that I see you; soon, you shall be taller than the giants that roam the lands beyond the Wall."

The green-eyed lowborn laughed heartily as he sat next to the cultured and wise alchemist. It felt good to get away from the Rock... he was alone there: all of the servants had been removed and the news ones only spoke in High Valyrian, leaving him feeling isolated in the already tense atmosphere that always seemed to form around him.

Tyren had no one to talk to, and he was forced to speak in a language that wasn't his own, he was forced to accept new ways of life and beliefs. It was all very troubling to him.

But whenever he came to visit the maester, his spirit had calmed: perhaps it was because he wished to escape, even if for briefly, the oppressive duty that he was bound to carry; maybe it was the appeal to return to past, simpler times.  
But it mattered not, for now, he was with his oldest friend, and he would dearly hold on to that.

"Nothing much lad, the day is as it was yesterday, and the day before that: I cannot find someone to host me and offer my experience and knowledge to."

Tyren felt guilt at having failed the maester; he had tried to talk to the Targaryen conqueror about it, to show that Hugar wouldn't have done anything to undermine the Valyrians, but the dragoness was immovable as the mountain on which Casterly Rock was built and had him cast out. New Valyria... that was how it was now called, and Hill did not know whether to be in awe at how much the entire fortress and city had changed with the surge of Old Valyria's people.

The dragons had torn down the Lannister legacy and had raised a new one... but although many of the smallfolk were ecstatic at the chance of having new schools, ports, trade routes, and overall better living conditions, there were many who did not share the same view.

If one was to simply observe, then they would immediately spot it: the discontent of tens of thousands of devotes faithful of the Seven. They had watched on in disgust as their Sept where destroyed, and their priceless heirlooms used to fund the construction of new monasteries as great, colossal places for prayer and worship to the Valyrian Gods.

Tyren wasn't blind to what the Targaryens where doing: they were slowly replacing the local populace with their own, inbreeding or in some cases, directly pushing them out, and a perfect example of this could be found in Hugar.

The Westermen acted in two ways: either the first, in which they peacefully accepted these changes and adopted them for their own without giving them a second thought; or the second, which was proving to be worrying as the contrast between the two social classes kept growing and planted the seeds for future civil conflicts if left unaddressed.

Tyren had tried to advise the ruthless woman that ruled from Casterly Rock to change, or at least to try and soften her ways, if only temporarily. But the dragoness did not give his words an ounce of consideration, and he was thus left ignored. Gods, he had tried... but not matter how hard he could, it would never be enough: he was a bastard, and the sole man that had actual Westerman blood in him that remained at the Rock. No one would spare him a moment of attention.

As things currently were, nothing could be done now... it was too late, mayhaps it was doomed to be a lost battle since the beginning. All of his actions would be useless. Tyren would have to live with this new order, and bow his head to the nobles that now ruled near half of Westeros.

"Why don't you go back to the Citadel in Oldtown? I am certain that the council of chained men would readily bring you in their ranks once more, you have many years of experience, and I fervently believe that you would prove to be an excellent teacher to the new generations of maesters." Hugar gave him a squeeze on the arm, his wispy white beard fluttering a little as he spoke: "I prayed that it could be that simple Tyren," "What is wrong?"

"I was born in these lands lad. The majority of my life, I spent here in these lands. And when I die, I will die here, in these lands." he said, the barest glimmer of frustration present in his tone.  
"I recognize that my renowned wits were enough for me to become the personal maester of a family of kings, and that will forever be my greatest accomplishment; but I will not spend the last of my name days away from my homeland."

Tyren could admire his determination, and the clear love that he held for his place of birth... he hoped... he hoped that his wish would be fulfilled.

"But enough about me; tell me, lad, how do _you_ fare with the Valyrians?" "It is... difficult at times. No one speaks the Common tongue. I am now taking lessons to learn High Valyrian." Hugar hummed in interest: "Yes, you told me once about these lessons, how are they proceeding?"

"I do not know, in complete truth: my instructor tells me that my pronunciation is still horrible, even after several moons of constant practice, but my vocabulary has expanded considerably." "Well, that is good to hear."

Tyren gave him an inquisitive look, "How can you be so sure of it?" the old maester chuckled heartily, "I remember the times, those of long ago, when you were this under my tutelage. Your interest towards the dragon's language was abysmal to say the least."

"But," the man paused, "I know for a fact that you are a determined young lad. Do you not recall the period in which you trained with Master at Arms to defeat that boy three years your senior? Oh, you were the Warrior incarnate himself on that day, such was your ferocity with a sword in hand!"

Tyren relived the moment in his mind, "Aye, he had insulted my father... and I remember being reprimanded for beating the cunt, even if he was the one in the wrong." The lad's name was Lucan, a nephew of a distant cousin to the Lannister cadet branch that was of Lannisport. The boy acted as if he were the king of the Westerlands, and was instantly drawn in to belittle and insult Tyren for his name as a bastard.

Lucan had made some mocking jest at the expense of his father's honor, and the Hill had seen naught but red. By the time he had won their match, the older boy had been left a mess of tears and pitiful cries.

"My boy, seeing you act that way, to correct an injustice no less; it was when I felt most pride for you." the emerald-eyed swordsman looked at him with a raised eyebrow, "I was under the impression that you were disappointed in my brash reaction. And I certainly do not think that you thought of it as such."

"Appearances must be kept, and I had to adopt a less-than-honest attitude. But deep inside, it pleased me to see you act more steadfast, more confident." his gaze was one of comfort, that which a grandfather would use when addressing his grandson, "I once told you that I do not follow the teachings of the Faith: it would be wrong of me to condemn and innocent child for the circumstances of his birth- "Because they did not have a say in the matter." he completed his phrase.

"No one asks to be born in this world." "Wether it be to a pair of nobles or smallfolk." Hugar gave him a strong pat on the shoulder, "You still remember my words to you. Tyren, you are a special man, truly, you are."

"Thank you maester. You are to share the merit of it then; for without your careful guidance, I would not be the man that I am today."

A heavy knock to the door of the small chambers made him jump in surprise, and when Tyren was about to move towards it, the other waved him off: "Allow me to, please, remain seated."

Hugar approached the wooden frame of the door, and opened it a little, peering out to the individual that had interrupted their talk, "Who are you? What do you want?"  
Hill looked towards his old friend, and his hand subconsciously went to touch Brightroar: he could not see the outside of the building from where he was, and it worried him some.

A gruff voice, heavily accented spoke next, "Where is Tyren Hill?" he immediately stood up and unsheathed some of the Valyrian steel blade. The maester could feel his former pupil's close presence, but did nothing to indicate that he was there; instead, he closed the door by a fraction of a hair.  
"What is your quarrel with him?" a drop of guarded suspicion bathed his words.

"I have no quarrel with the Lannister, now tell me where he is." the maester refused to obey to his command, and kept asking him for other information, "I still cannot allow you, in good faith, to pass. Not until I have assurance that you won't do anything that will bring harm to the lad."  
The man barked something in High Valyrian, and Tyren had confirmation of his descent.

Presumably, he stepped away, for Hugar closed the door, his expression softening. "Well? Who was he?" "A Valyri- he was not allowed to finish as the wide frame of the portal came crashing against him, splinters of wood flying off as the hinges were ripped straight out of their encrusted locks.

While Hugar fell heavily to the floor with a gasp, Tyren surged forward as the intruder entered the adobe: his sword was placed against the ringed chainmail of the Valyrian's neck, faster than he could have reacted.  
"What do you want from?!" Tyren roared like a beast, his anger surging through, "You are the Lannister bastard?" "Yes! What is it?" the low groan behind him made him turn his gaze to see Hugar spread on the floor, the door was preventing him from righting himself on his feet.

Still keeping the man at sword point, Tyren backed away and pushed the broken and useless cluster of wood from off the old man's chest. "Are you alright?" he whispered to him, concern laced in his tone. The maester did not answer, but groaned again, a weak, croaking sound like that of an animal that was dying.

From the entrance, the Valyrian soldier remained standing, his purple eyes watching the scene without an ounce of compassion. "Why in the Seven Hells would you do that?!" "Because the fool was in my way." he replied in High Valyrian, and it made Tyren all the more enraged. He jumped up and brought his face close to the other's, "You will find a healer immediately and bring them here, then, you will have this door fixed for your idiotic actions." he growled out.

"You do not command me lionspawn. I am under orders to see that you handle a sum of gold dragons to the orphanage in the- "I could care less of a million coins! Get me a healer, and I will come, but only when this man is in proper care!" he practically hissed at him.

The warrior gave him an annoyed look, but walked away. Tyren was then next to Hugar, tending to him, "Can you breathe? Does anything feel broken?" "Th-Thank you Ty-Tyren." he weakly laughed, "You are a good lad." he grunted when his hand passed over his shoulder.  
The Westerman looked at it with furrowed eyes as he gently touched it again, and the maester gasped in raw pain. "It is dislocated... your shoulder is dislocated." he told him. "Yes, I can indeed feel it!" he moaned.

The young man looked over his friend, searching with his digits for any other wounds. "I am only winded my boy. The bone is the only thing that needs to heal." "It's not broken, is it? he asked, afraid of the possibility of it being so.

"No." the other took in a gulp of air, "The pain would be much worse... but I did hit my head on the stone... Stranger take me... I can't see straight." Tyren's fingers brushed over the few strands of white hair left on his scalp. "There are no cuts. No bleeding or infection." "But the headache remains..." the older man groaned once more.

"Do not worry, a healer will arrive soon, you will get Milk of the Poppy, I will make sure it it." Tyren held him up as he rose, letting him lean on him more and walk towards the simple bed that was at the end of the room.  
"Here, gently now." he softly spoke as he lowered Hugar onto the mattress, placing a plain pillow under his head to try and alleviate the pain. "Tyren..." "Yes?"

"There should be a chest, near the back of this wall." "What do I need to do with it?" he asked, hovering over him. The old man coughed, before continuing to talk: "I have all of my resources in there, including the Milk. Grab it all, and take some Essence of Nightshade as well." he instructed him as his hand came to rest against his forehead.

The young lion approached the large and sturdy case, unlocking it and opening the lid of it, exposing all of its contents. Swiftly, his hands grasped at the many jars and little bags that where in it, setting them down on the table behind him.  
"Where is the Nightshade?" he whispered to himself, brows knitting in confusion as he failed to find it. Now that he was searching for it thoroughly, he noticed that many things were missing. While Tyren was by no means a maester, he had come to learn and recognize several of the potions and liquids that Hugar would use... and he knew that the elderly man always had a batch of these special concoctions with him.

The son of the Rock raised his head, his eyes looking over the other furniture and containers. He checked to see what was inside those as wells but found naught but notes of parchment and scrolls, or food for the ravens.  
"Maester, I cannot retrieve the Milk and the Nightshade, are you sure that they were in the chest and not somewhere else?" he called out, watching as the other cringed and shut his eyes, "Please lower your voice lad; you are making my head hurt all the more." "Yes, sorry." he came to stand closer to him, and used a more silent tone: "I asked you where the Essence and Milk where." "They are in the chest."

"They are not there." he answered, "Oh? Well look into the other chests, they must be somewhere else then." "I have already done so and have found nothing." Hugar seemed to realize something, for his eyes widened briefly but were covered by a mask of uncertainty, but it was too late, for Tyren had noticed. "Maester, is there something wrong?"

"Wh- no, no Tyren, not at all." "Then could you tell me where the potions are?" "Their... somewhere." he concluded. "Maester," the you get man began, "Hugar, what are you hiding from me?"

The maester looked a way, a layer of guilt having washed over his face. "Hmm. It seems you are too observant for your own good lad. I do not have them." this confused Tyren greatly, as to him it seemed unfathomable that this wise man would be without them.

"Why? Did you not have the coin to buy them? Or was it..." his voice stopped. "They were taken from you." he stated, understanding why Hugar was acting so strangely.

With a sigh, the maester confirmed his theory: "Aye, robbed you could say." "How?" "They were taken by me, by a pair of men." Tyren brought a chair next to the bed and sat down on it. "Were you hurt?" he asked with concern. "No," the other shook his head, "Other than for a small cut on the arm, I am fine." "A cut? A cut?" Tyren stood up, "You could have been gravely injured, fatally even!" he walked back to the entrance of the humble chambers, looking at the short corridor that was uncovered to the air of Queensguard.

"Why didn't you say anything? I could have helped you, had a guard be assigned to guard this entire building. Why did you not let me know?" "It doesn't matter." Tyren whirled around and marched back to Hugar, who had sat up and had his gaze cast in a lowered position. "Damn the Seven it does matter! What are you even sputtering about? Have your wits dulled?"

The maester cradled his aching arm, aware that even the smallest of movements would bring torment, "There is nothing that you can do about it, the past is the past." "But why didn't you tell me about this? Why in the name of Father did you not?"

"Because it won't change anything!" he shouted at him, his patience at an end, "Change what?" "The rebellion!" Hugar yelled again, his chest rising and falling with rage.

Tyren stopped, shocked at what he had heard, "A rebellion? What rebellion?" his eyes narrowed, "Maester, what is happening?" "Lower your voice. We mustn't be heard by any wandering ears."

The bastard did so and sat down once more, "There is a group of knights and swordsmen, who are very much loyal to the Lannisters and the Faith of the Seven." Tyren looked at him with enough of a glare to beat that of a lion. "And what?"

"They plan to replace the Targaryens, with a person who possesses the blood of the Rock." "That will be madness! Have they not seen the size of those dragons? Their jaws are wide enough to swallow a carriage whole! Who do they expect to win against creatures of living flames?"

The old maester sighed, "That is why they are fanatics." "Have," he stopped himself but continued with his questioning: "Have they come here before?"

Hugar could not meet his gaze, "Yes. On a few occasions." "What did they want?" "Milk of the Poppy... a few healing herbs and other things." "And you gave them to these imbeciles?! Why? Why would you do that?!" his vocal cords were beginning to go raw with how much he was screaming, but Tyren did not care enough to worry about it.

"They paid me to do so." Tyren dug his nails into the skin of cheeks. "Do you realize how stupid that was? You could be charged with treason! Do you know what is the punishment for such a crime?"

They both knew of it, and thus no answer was needed. "Listen... you... you have to ignore this... these people, you will suffer because of it." he approached the man, "Maester Hugar, I care for you, with all of my good being, but you must stop this at once! I will say nothing, but you must give me your word that you shan't attempt a thing, never again!"

It was then that the old man looked up to Tyren, and saw that his eyes contained the waters of anguish and worry. "Try to at least tell me what you know of these people... if the worst of it comes to fruition, then you will not be held accountable." "Alright, you are too good a person Tyren... many will take advantage of it." "Please, speak of what you know maester, I beg of you, my friend..."

"They call themselves the Sons of the Rock, they are a group of maniacal bannermen, our own fellow Westermen to be exact, who have renounced their new lieges." "Well? How many are they? Are they armed?" Hugar let out a shaker breath, "They are many, and the number of sympathizers that they hold must be tenfold at the very least. They sabotage convoys here and there from the last that I heard... they, obtain favorable deals from all manner of people, weapons from blacksmiths, clothes from certain tailors and so forth..." Tyren nodded, already pleased with the information that he had given him.

"Do you know who they are? It they have a leader, or where they hide and convey?" the responded in the negative, "No, I only hear of whispers and rumors, I would never tie myself so close to them." "Is there anything else?" Tyren asked, hoping for more, but the maester did not give him the knowledge that he so desperately craved.

Then, they heard someone approaching, two, in fact. Tyren was about to draw out Brightroar, but stopped once he saw that it was the warrior from before, along with a healer.  
"Maester, I must go. Let yourself be treated by this healer... I will be back on the morrow if fate favors me." he whispered to him and his his goodbye.

"Will you come now? The princess has issued you a command." "Yes, I will." but he stopped before the remains of the door, stepping over it after looking at its damaged form. "I want that to be repaired, find a carpenter or woodworker after you have finished with me and- the man rudely grasped the gathered coins that were in his hand and cut him off: "Let's go, too much time has already passed."

And after traversing the busy and lively streets of Queensguard, they arrived in front of a small building; it was a small, maintained little thing, and it was clear that much care was put into its preservation. Tyren recognized this as one of the few orphanages that were built around the city, and he was curious as to why he was here. A woman was speaking with a couple of armed men, and she greeted him with a full smile, startling him with her vivacity. It was probable that she didn't know who he was, and even if she did, then her effort in concealing her surprise, or disgust, was remarkable indeed.

"Thank you my lord, we were not expecting the amount of gold dragons to be donated to our small establishment!" still unsure and wary of her attitude, he hesitantly shook her open hand, "It is not a problem, matron." he turned to look at one of the men, and asked, "Skoros iksos se nūmāzma hen bisa?" the other did not respond in the way that he would have liked, and he only said that the Targaryen conqueror had seen so that the two thousand gold dragons were gifted to the orphanage so that a new, larger and better establishment be built.

"You have graced us with this gift my lord, many homeless children will sleep with full bellies in the following years." Tyren diverted the praise from him to the dragonlord, knowing that he had nothing to do with these actions, "I thank you matron, but this donation was not done by my hand, the royal princess was the one who did, your compliments would be best directed to her." "Of course my lord, do you wish to come see the children?"

The bastard looked to mid-evening sky, and contemplated the choice. "I am afraid I cannot, there are other matters that await my attention." "Good day my lord." "To you as well."

He walked away from there, the small group of guards still following him wherever he went. Tyren moved to an alleyway, which was deserted, there he turned around to face those men. "I am perfectly fine as I currently am, you need not to accompany me." much to his dismay, they answered back in High Valyrian, "Īlon issi naejot obey se zaldrīzes āeksio."

Tyren tiredly rubbed the bridge of his nose; this was proving to be much more cumbersome than what he had been expecting, and if he wanted his plan to work, then he would need these stubborn Valyrians to cooperate.  
"Your loyalty is admirable, but I request that you leave me to my own devices; it is for an important matter." but no matter how much he tried to convince them, the warriors would not be swayed from their duty.

Hill tried to think of another way to approach them, for if he was to truly investigate the poorer districts for activity on part of the Sons of the Lion, he would have to do so alone; as to not be easily identified by a cluster of armored men standing at his back at all times.

Running away or attempting to would be an idiotic decision, which would bring for uncalled questioning by a certain white haired woman, and Tyren had not want to be at the mercy of her verbal lashing.  
"Very well, I will accept the company of one man, could you at least leave us alone? I am armed with Valyrian steel, there is no need for more protection." he reasoned with them, and begrudgingly, they agreed, "Gaomagon daor gaomagon mirros doru-borto." the captain said, to which Hill rolled his eyes, "Yes, do not fret over it." he ended the small talk, moving forward and entering into another alleyway.

"I will need you to keep quiet as best as you can sir, we will be much in need of that for what I am going to do." he explained to the Valyrian as they steeped inside a small tavern, "Pretend as if we do not know each other." was all that he said before moving towards the owner of the establishment.

"New face around here, are you not lad?" the thin man asked, "Indeed I am." the other opened his arms, "Welcome to the city of the Lions, here, this mead is free as your first time at my humble shop." a cup of foul smelling liquid was placed in front of it, and Tyren resisted the urge to frown at the sight of it. Still, he brought it up to his lips and drank, coughing loudly when the strong beverage burned his throat.

The patron laughed, "This is real mead boy! Not that flimsy wine that the nobles prance around as the best thing to have ever grazed the Westerlands." Hill held up a hand to his mouth; its taste would remain serrated on his tongue for many a day to come.

"I was under the impression that the Targaryens had deposed the Lannisters, is that not how things are?" "Oh, those fucking dragons believe they've beaten the fair spoken lions, but they know not of the beasts claws, come the end of autumn, the banners of gold and red will fly tall and proud once more!"

It was apparent that this mean clearly had no qualms in shouting his secrets, and the more time that passed, the more Tyren was convinced that the majority of the people inside the tavern were in some way affiliated with the Sons of the Rock, given how many openly glared at the only Valyrian in the entire room.

"I would like to have some porridge if you have it." "How about we put a nice, warm chicken leg along with it and a loaf of bread." Hill shook his head, "No, the porridge is fine, I won't remain here long."

He covered Brightroar's pommel with his coat, for he was sure that it would be easily recognized. Tyren then sat down at one of the tables in the corner, so that his back was against the wall.

Slowly, he ate the meal, which wasn't as bad as he was expecting, and he began to listen to the other people converse around him, to see if he would be able to hear of any hushed whispers or talk of the rebellious group.  
It was nearly two hours later that two men sat at the table besides him and began to converse on what would be called criminal activity by many.

"Are you sure that this is a good place to talk? The winged fucker is there at the front of the tavern, that puts my worry on our plans." "Pay him no mind, we must concentrate on the large one first, then we will pick off the rest like reeds."

Tyren inched slightly closer, still faking his drinking, as he tried to listen better, "My informant has told me that the arrogant bitch will send for a ship filled with goods, and Valyrian steel no doubt, raiding and capturing it would be a great boon to our fellow soldiers." "Do you know when it is that it will leave the port?" "In four days, it will travel south to reach that damned city that these incest halfbreeds are building in the east." "Good, with careful coordination we will take what is rightfully ours, and we will stand a better chance at- a pair of hands slammed on his table, and Tyren jumped in shock: in front of him was a who bore a grin down at him.

"You look like a lonesome wanderer young lad, is there something wrong?" his teeth were yellow and riddled with caries, but his eyes held a dangerous gleam in them.  
"No, not at all sir, I am simply contemplating on the taste of this fine mead." "Oh, let us not go that way." he sat down, "You have been brooding here for far too long to do that. What are you doing lad? What game are you playing?"

Tyren did not like the tone of his voice, and saw that he had a strapped sword at his side, "I fear that I do not understand: do you have a problem with me?" "Aye, I do. You haven't gotten drunk once since you entered, and you were besides that Valyrian twat over there."

"You are acting like a lost lamb; why are you listening to the conversations of these honest people?" by now, those nearest to them had turned to look at the scene the man's loud tone being the motivation. "Perhaps it is because I have nothing else to do."

"Or maybe it is for some other nefarious deed, eh?" silence followed for a couple of moments, before the intrusive person lunged forward in an attempt to grab him, but Tyren pushed the table against him and stood up.

The bastard looked at the other men in the tavern, before they were all moving together to unsheathe their swords and battle. The first offender tried to stab him but wasn't fast enough to step out of the way when Brightroar cleaved his head in half.

"GUARD! GO!" Tyren roared as he caught the next opponent on the shoulder and cut into his flesh, letting his soul fly free from his body.  
Hill swung the Valyrian steel blade in wide arcs, keeping the others at bay with its deadly touch. From the corner of his eye, he saw that the Targaryen bannerman had left... he was now alone against over a dozen enemies.

"We have to kill the cunt now!" "He carries the Lannister's ancestral sword! He usurps their legacy!" "We are the damned archers?!"

Tyren could feel the sweat creasing the sides of his face, but he dared not to wipe them away; his fingers where white as he gripped the elaborate handle of the sword. He could not fight them all at once, and he was backed into a cramped space, meaning that his range of movements was limited. They held the advantage in numbers and position... he would need to try and wait for the other Valyrians to arrive, or he would find the Stranger's embrace amongst these vermin.

One dove into a strike, which Tyren parried, but before he could even step in to counter, another had attack him by the side, cutting his shirt open and revealing a bleeding wound. He hissed internally as his teeth grit together. These fuckers were coordinating attack between each other, putting him at a severely dangerous position.

"Are you not going to fight me? Do you mean to show that the so called Sons of the Rock are naught but men dressed in women's clothing?" he barked out to the scowling rebels. "Shut your mouth dog, you are a traitor to our king!" "I killed your king!" he spat back venomously.

A few gasps were heard, "It's the bastard!" "That fucker killed Loren!" "Kinslayer!" "Turncoat, craven!" good, they were becoming agitated. "If you are so eager to avenge my uncle, then come forth, you will join him in the Seven Hells."

Finally, one of the less collected ones charged with a furious snarl, fending his blade left and right, pushing Tyren back against the wall, until he found several feet of steel driven into his heart. The others followed and Hill whirled, yelling when more and more slashes graced his skin as he ended two more men.

Suddenly, shouts and screams of pain were heard from outside the tavern, and a collection of Valyrian warriors burst through the locked door. After that, it was chaos, and Tyren was lost in the middle of it as he took part in slaughtering the remaining lion loyalists.

Some fucker had cut his calf, and now he was forced to limp as a result. "Issi ao ōdrikagon?" "Speak Common, I am not in the condition to translate your tongue." "Are you hurt?" Tyren wanted to make a biting remark, but held his lips sealed shut. The few Westermen left alive were bleeding and wounded, one was attempting to crawl of way but was stopped when a lance pierced his head, ending his movements once and for all.

The bastard stumbled out of the building and into the late air of the evening. The sun was setting, and soon, the final meal of the day would be served.  
Around the inn, he could see a row of the city guard keeping a crowd of onlookers away, and Tyren saw that many pointed their fingers at him and whispered, for he was filthy with blood, both his own and that of his slain foes.

Still, he approached one of the horses that was being held at bay and gave a nod to the man who held the animal steady as he fumbled to secure himself onto the saddle. His leg and body hurt, and Hill knew that he would not be able to ride back to New Valyria if not at a very slow pace.

And so, steadily, if somewhat annoyingly, the company of swordsmen set off to the fortress' gates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skoros iksos se nūmāzma hen bisa= What is the meaning of this  
> Īlon issi naejot obey se zaldrīzes āeksio= We are to obey the dragonlord  
> Gaomagon daor gaomagon mirros doru-borto= Do not do anything stupid  
> Please let me know what you thought about this chapter, I am trying to make Tyren, Hugar, Daemavon and Maenna into believable and concrete characters, so please let me know of your thoughts.  
> Finally I would like to say that I am now going to be in search for a beta reader, to help sharpen the details and corrects the chapters for eventual grammatical mistakes, so let me know if you are interested.  
> Finally, I won't be updating next saturday but on the next week after that, as I will be having several other projects to work on, mostly relating to school. Until the next chapter.


	7. Amidst foolishness and loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We see the dire consequences that Tyren's actions bring, as well as how the situation is in Kings Landing

**Tyren Hill VII**

He could feel his heart thumping against his rib cage, the echo of it constantly present in his ears.  
Tyren was tired and wounded... but the those sensations of exhaustion and pain paled in comparison to the anxiousness that pervaded his mind and soul.

No one had told him anything, other than the fact that the Targaryen dragonlord demanded that he come and speak to her.

As he walked through the renovated halls of New Valyria, the Lannister bastard was pulled further and further down the well of fear. The very air unsettled him: it was cold, and biting... which should not have ben possible given the several hearths, candles and torches that were light at different intervals of the passages.

A part of him yearned to stop, to turn around and walk away; away from this cursed castle and away from the tensions that were rising in Queensguard.  
The carpets that his boots stepped over were immaculate, crafted by hand and woven with strands of silver, to form symbols and complex figures along the area of them. Each one of them was likely worth several years of pay, especially when he noted that even pelts were used to form the beautiful coverings.

Red droplets stained them, and the culprit of this was his blood... that kept seeping from the cuts that marred his flesh. If possible, it made him feel even more unsettled, for he was ruining the carpets with his sinful essence.  
Similarly to how Brightroar always seemed to actively fight against his movements, these large and tall arched rooms despised his presence, as if wanting to banish him away.

The colored windows that were placed at the high wall to his left were dark because of the ongoing storm, and the noticeable noise of hundreds of droplets of water impacting against the precious glass was the only other thing that broke the silence of the hallway.

Tyren pulled at the cuff of his shirt a little, and adjusted his belt so that the Valyrian steel sword wouldn't get caught by anything.  
Soon, he was in front of a pair of heavily armored guards, who stood straight and alert at the sides of a large door lined with silver and letters in High Valyrian, the small red rubies placed in the dark black wood lightly shined in the dim light.

Without speaking a word, one of the two men briefly turned around and pushed the large door open, revealing an even larger and lavishly decorated set of chambers through it.  
Almost hesitantly, Hill passed by them, coming into one of the dragonrider's personal rooms.

Everywhere he looked, Tyren saw nothing but statues, paintings and artifacts that worshipped and praised the dragon of house Targaryen; the columns that supported the ceiling were built and crafted so that it seemed as if dragons were twisting around it; the sigil of the demon of fire was present on nearly every surface that wasn't covered in some other kind of decoration.  
The glowing symbols present all over the stone interiors glowed, adding more light to that which was already provided the elaborate chandelier that hung in the center of the room.

And at the end of the chambers, seated in the place of honor at the head of the long table, was Visenya Targaryen herself, eating the last meal of the day.

An assortment of diverse foods, meats and fruits was properly placed in a collection of equally numerous platters and plates, their smell alone was enough to catch the interest of his nose; Tyren would have gladly observed and stared at the soft delicacies, but his green eyes were drawn to the woman who was consuming them.

The high born bastard did not initially move, but the dragoness' silence and lack of attention towards him somehow made him unsure of how to proceed. Slowly, he moved forward and gave her a bow, "Your grace, I have returned." she did not answer, still preoccupied with savoring the meats and vegetables, making his anxiety grow all the more.

Hill moved forward and pulled one of the chairs out, and was about to sit himself on it when a cold voice stopped him: "I did not say you could sit Hill." the Targaryen conqueror still did deign him worthy to look at, as she brought a cup of red wine to her lips, drinking from it.

"You will ruin the good leather of the seat with your blood, and I will not allow coin to spent for a mistake that can be so easily avoided." he settled to his feet, clasping his hands behind his back as he waited for her to address him once more.

"I believed that my command was clear when I had you instructed to donate a sum of gold dragons to one of the orphanages. And yet," her fingers, dressed in their Valyrian steel gauntlets as they always were, gripped the knife next to the neatly folded napkin, digging the metal through the succulent meat, "I now hear word that a fray has broken out in one of the lonely taverns in the suburbs of Queensguard."

"You were expected to return before the sun set over the Sunset Sea, and instead you come do so an hour later, dirtied, wounded and bleeding all over the halls of this bastion." as the last of the meal was finished, Visenya cleaned her mouth with the cloth, and sat up from the chair, moving towards the chest behind the table and retrieving a scroll from it.

"Four Valyrian warriors are dead, and thrice as much are wounded. What," her words turned glacial and sharp, "Were your intentions?" she turned around and finally bore her gaze into him, which caused Tyren to look away.

"Do you know what you have done?" he hesitated to answer, but did so anyways: "Yes." that seemed to light a fire of rage inside of her, for the Targaryen stepped forth in front of him, "No, you do not understand it at all."

Visenya did not shout, there was no need to: her menacing aura was enough to convey her emotions, and Tyren was to be the victim of them, "Your reckless actions have caused much death, and in turn, you are shaming me, and house Targaryen."

"Perhaps you still have yet to understand the situation, so listen well you ingrate lionspawn: it does not matter that you are a bastard; you will act like a proper lord, lest word of this spreads and you are given a humiliating moniker." Tyren noticed that Dark Sister wasn't at her side, but it did not make him feel any safer.

"Now tell me Hill," she leaned forward, clawed nails gripping his chin and harshly pulling it up so that he looked at her, "Why did you act like a drunkard?"

Tyren gulped when her iliac orbs pierced his visage, but presented his response anyways, "It was to investigate a rumor." "Concerning what?"

"The Sons of the Rock." for a moment, her glare lost some of its ferocity, and she let go of him, but a palm covered in Valyrian steel bashed against the bastard's cheek, splitting it open.  
Tyren staggered away, nearly falling to the floor in shock at her. "What were you thinking? What compelled you to operate this why?" her rage was brimming, nearly overwhelming the dam of patience that held it still.

The wrath of the dragon was fully displayed on the Targaryen's ethereal and breathtaking features, "You are out of line Hill, this is unacceptable behavior..." her lip curled into a sneer, "Were it not for the fact that you are to be my husband, I would have you beaten and thrown into one of the cells in the dungeon." there was no helping hand, ready to bring him up and comfort him, no, there was naught but a tidal amount of anger and disappointment.

Tyren righted himself, brushing the seeping blood away from the cut, wincing at the horrible sting of it, "Your grace, I did so because a friend of mine was being threatened by their doings... and I learned that they plan to raid and capture a ship that will be leaving from the port to arrive in Kings Landing." Visenya listened to his confession and collected herself, stalking away from the injured lion, turning her back to him.

"Your medallion," she stated, "the one that symbolizes you and your position as an Azantys, where is it?" Tyren cursed himself for not wearing the small piece of dragon steel with him.  
"In my chambers your grace." "Why is it not around your neck?"

"I do not like to wear it your grace. I beg you pardon for not doing as commanded, your grace." he lowered his head, "Flattery will not help you Hill, and neither will apologies." she walked away from the room, motioning to him to follow with the flick of her hand.  
"The information that you uncovered regarding the planned assault on one of my ships is the only good thing that has come out of your childish adventure." her tone was cruel and cutting, as was her attitude at the moment.

"Your grace, please try to understand that I did not mean for the matter to get out of control, I tried to oppose the use of bloodshed until it was necessary." she let out a snort, "I thought that the stories told of the Lannister's great intellect and cunning; clearly you have only inherited their beauty and foolishness." her rude and deliberate verbal attack caused Hill to effectively reduce the usage of his vocal cords to nothing.

Their walk was one that was condoned in silence, but Tyren was aware of the fact that the dragon was ready to rain fire and blood upon him... he was at the mercy of the great beast, alone and defenseless in this titanic fortress, and armed only with a blade that actively impeded his movements.

Visenya barked out quick orders to the several royal guards that they passed, and a few moved to other halls and stairways, immediately setting out to completing their tasks. Tyren had yet not reached the mastery in High Valyrian to properly understand what it was that the Targaryen said, but he could predict that it wasn't something that he would like.

As they continued to traverse through the the levels of New Valyria, the storm that raged outside continued to grow more violent and turbulent. Streaks and flashes of thunder painted the dark sky, creating a stark contrast between the black of the clouds and the white of the lightning.

Finally, they arrived at another pair of large doors, and now that they were accompanied by a dozen of heavily armed Valyrians, the Targaryen turned to look at him, "Unfasten your sword belt." Tyren did as she demanded, and one of the guards yanked the harness and blade away from his grasp as soon as it had been removed from around his waist.

The exit was revealed to lead towards the large Godswood, and Tyren had to close his eyes as the wind and rain whipped across his face, but Visenya walked forward, "Come, a little water won't hurt anyone."  
On the contrary, the many trees and flowers were swaying in the air, as if the Old Gods themselves wanted to uproot them, the wind howling loudly in the open area.  
The bastard was careful with how he stepped over things, for the ground was wet and slippery, sloshes of mud covering the normally dry stairs carved out of stone.

At long last, they stood in front of the imposing weirwood tree, which thankfully shielded them from some of the elements.  
The Targaryen glared at him, her armor gleaming even in the dark light; Hill could not help but shiver, as he felt the cold begin to seep through his coat and under it to reach at his body.

"You wish to be an errant knight then? Very well, you will have free reign over these wild and untamed lands." she gestured towards the rest of the well kept patch of land.

Tyren turned to look at her, his green eyes widening, "Your grace, I- "And I am sure that you will find many fine relics and treasures indeed, perhaps you will also learn of new plots that those rebels keep formulating." her hands then began to roughly undress him, ripping the tunic away from his form.

"Please, there is no need- "I will hear not another word from you Hill; let this be a lesson worth learning... perhaps you will finally understand how to behave well." she venomously growled out, walking away from the wet and shivering man.

Tyren looked at her retreating silhouette, still not believing what she had just done.

Another crash of thunder broke him out of his state, and he was reminded of the harsh conditions that the weather had reserved for him. Hastily, he moved to and around the trunk of the white colored tree, seeking shelter somewhere in its many large roots.  
It was a task easier said than done, for it took him many minutes to find a proper hole in which he could nest himself.

And unfortunately, he had been exposed to the dangerous climate for long in his efforts.  
Tyren tried his best to cover himself, to keep the wind and water away from reaching him. But for the most part, he was relatively fine: the great cluster of branches that hung a few feet above his head was tightly packed and knitted, save for the occasional drop of rain that managed to pierce through the large complexion of wood and leaves.

His wounds were ridden with pain and discomfort, and he did not have anything to use in order to diminish their effect.

It would be a long night, and the Lannister bastard would try his best to not fall ill, even if he knew, deep in his heart that the chances of that occurring were high indeed.

**Visenya Targaryen VII**

She was furious at what the man had done, of how reckless he had been with his little adventure and heroic deed.  
The fool had returned bloody and injured, all for some favor that this so called friend of his had begged him for.

He was too rebellious for his own good: he did not have the calm temperament that was needed to be a good lord; but it did not matter for it would not change her plans.  
The dragoness was mildly aware of her state: she was leaving behind trails of water in her wake.

"Have that be placed in one of the treasuries, and make sure that no one lay a single finger on it." the bannerman addressed her formally and left to obey her order.

Her appetite was gone, her anger saw to that and now her emotions demanded that they be released in some kind of way...

Visenya signed as she took another flight of stairs to reach the upper part of the central tower that held her chambers. She passed by her solar, and finally entered the room that held the large pool in which she was so common cleaning herself.

But bathing now would be needless and pointless, and it would create nothing but a waste of clean, pure water.  
Idly, she began to remove the several pieces of Valyrian steel that clung to her figure, including the consecutive chainmail and dress of fur and silk. She left them on an apposite post, knowing that the servants would be ready to clean it once more.

The dragon rider turned towards one of the wide and detailed cupboards and opened one of the drawers, watching with mild satisfaction as the component seemingly slid out without any bumps or scrapes.  
She retrieved a gown of silk, colored red as her house's color, and proceed to wear that for the remainder of the day and the night.

With a tired sigh, she sat in front of the large mirror and began to undo her braids, noticing that many strands of her platinum blonde hair were wet. That immediately caused her to rethink of the bastard, and the brewing and fiery rage returned, her lips scowling at the memory.  
What truly made her blood boil, was the fact that he acted independently, as if not under the condition of obeying to the conqueror.

Visenya had treated him fairly: she gave him new quarters, new sets of clothes and even allowed him to traverse freely in most parts of Queensguard, so to be left to his own wants and needs. But it was evident that this approach was not the optimal one; and so a harsher, more strict manner of control would be necessary.

The boy had lost his liberty with this ridiculous stunt... to think that he had come so close to ruining everything that she had worked so hard to accomplish. Her nails dug into the skin of her palms. nearly cashing them to bleed.

The dragoness had half a mind to simply have him locked and confined to his chambers, the ancestral Valyrian steel sword of the Lannisters would be discarded, maybe reforged and gifted to another, worthier Azantys.

"May the Fourteen Flames help me... why must this be so difficult?" she sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose as she arrived at her bed quarters.  
Gently, Visenya placed herself under the thick covers of it, and blew away the candlelight on the post next to her, engulfing the large room in complete and utter darkness.  
  
  
  


Many an hour later, the Valyrian awoke.

She waited a couple of minutes, savoring the final moments of rest before eventually getting up to start a new day, one that was to be filled with the usual processes of signing document, electing new laws and decrees, and collecting the debts that the vassal houses owned them.

This room was at the peak of New Valyria, at the very top of the main keep. The only other space present above her was the internal ceiling and the roof itself, consisting of many red and black shingles and a single, large pole that proudly displayed the three headed dragon.

No birds flew this high up in the air, and as such, the only noise that could be heard was that of her own footsteps and the wind. The experienced and ruthless woman pulled the curtains of the large, rectangular window open, and was greeted to the sight of the entirety of Queensguard and beyond.

Dozens of ships were either leaving or docking into the massive harbour that graced the city. They were all carrying goods and gold, guaranteeing trade and opportunity to any who wished to seek for it.

Below the tall mountain, the people that lived in said city, both Westermen and Valyrians were already scurrying around, doing this and that, like thousands of small, tiny ants. Two hundred thousand souls... that was how many called Queensguard home, and all of them were for Visenya to care for.

The sun was nearly done with rising above the sea, indicating that the current time was that of early morning. And although she heard nothing, the royal Targaryen knew that the buildings and streets were alive with the noises of the markets and carriages and all manner of animals and people.

If she concentrated enough and closed her eyes, she could even hear them. Her thoughts were broken when a soft knock was heard at the door of her chamber, and her gaze was drawn to it, "Enter." she ordered.

One of the maids emerged from the open space and bowed to her, "Your grace, I am ready to replace your bedsheets and clean your chambers." "See to it then." was her only response as she moved past the shorter woman.

To her approval, the suit of plate and metal had been washed and scented, and was just comfortable to wear as it had been in the past few days. Passing by another painting of the Old Freehold, she settled in her solar, comfortably coming to rest in the large seat.

"Your grace, your Spymaster has arrived." the royal guard addressed her with respect and venerance.  
"Good, send her in." Visenya stated as she opened one of the drawers and retrieved a journal, flicking through the pages and stopping to the most recent date.

Eraelys Taraenyon stepped forth into the opulent and grand room, bowing to the Targaryen conqueror and rising when given order so.  
"Your grace, I trust that the night has treated you fairly?" "Indeed it has Master." she used her official title, and the woman bowed her head once more in respect.

Eraelys had the Valyrian features, thin of build, average of height, she was by no means ugly but it appeared as the woman made no efforts to highlight her features.  
Finding her, and adding her to her ranks had been one of the best decisions that Visenya had ever taken: she had proven her worth and usefulness by instructing a great connection of spies and informants. The reason for why the dragoness had such a vast and reliable flow of information was thanks to her, and because of that, she owned a great deal of respect and debt to her.

"Let us not waste more time, have their been any new developments regarding our Andal vassals?" "Minor inconveniences your grace: apparently, Lord Gerald Lefford was seemingly heard as proclaiming his loyalty to the Lannisters, but he was drunk, and could barely stand straight as he shuffled on his fat feet."  
Visenya turned her head to the side, resting her chin upon the gauntlet of Valyrian steel, "Hmm, these are the ramblings of a fool, but it certainly would not hurt to observe his actions. Have a few more spies approach him and gouge his feelings; if need be, we can simply cause another unfortunate accident."

"The other Westermen will begin to suspect something your grace: there is already talk that Lady Laurane's passing was not natural." the Targaryen dipped the quill into the pot of ink and began to compose a letter, "And who are the ones that would pretend to do so?" "Mainly, and especially house Prester." "Of course." "It was to be expected."  
It was; as many other nobles, the Presters were extremely prideful of their lineage, and the death of their family member, the very own that had linked them to the power of Casterly Rock was dead.

The dragon rider rose to her feet then, walking around the wooden object, holding the piece of parchment with the still drying ink on it. "Eraelys, it goes without saying that I will be expecting a tighter watch on them." "Naturally your grace, would you also want to call your banners and armies in case of a rebellion?" "They would not dare use treason; many of these lords are cunning enough to understand the futility of an opposition, especially since they have seen the power of the dragons."

"You are correct your grace," she paused, looking unsure for a moment: "I also have other, unsettling news." Visenya regarded her with steel eyes, "That is?" "Many citizens of Queensguard are growing increasingly discontent with the new reforms; particularly those regarding the public plays and the closure of all the whorehouse establishments."

"They will learn to do so without; my city will not be one filled with people wanton with lust, nor will they be played to the songs and tunes of idiotic jesters." the Spymaster looked ready to intervene, and so she did: "Your grace, while I can fathom your logic and point of view, it is my duty to advise you in the best of your interests: the forming social divide between us Valyrians and Westermen will likely cause more problems in the coming months. Not acting now to appease and garner the love of the smallfolk could prove to be a costly loss, and- "And nothing Master. If those of common birth refuse to change with the time, then they will not be worthy of living in this new and improved realm." her resolve was immovable in its decision.

"If it is fear that I need use to properly control and rule them, then I shall be merciless." the scroll was placed on a small table, next to one of the windows.  
"If they will not have our offer, then they shall be treated with fire and blood." she spoke, nominating the infamous words that her family used.

"You have my thanks Eraelys, continue with your efforts and you will be greatly rewarded." "I grateful of your hospitality, your grace, I shall leave." but it became obvious that the noble Valyrian hadn't finished the conversation just yet: she held up her hand, as the other went to trail over the stone sculpture of one of the Gods, "Have one of your men keep a close eye on Tyren Hill. I want him to be followed, observed, to know wherever he goes, does and whomever he meets."

"It will be done your grace." with that, the other Valyrian woman bowed, turned on her heel and proceeded to move away from the room, closing the decorated door behind her.

She would send for a guard to retrieve the bastard, and would have a healer ready if need be, only the Fourteen Flames knew the amount of trouble that the boy was capable of causing.

The thought of simply having him be locked with heavy chains was one that had snuck its way into her psyche, but she quickly dispelled such a notion: it would do nothing to tame him, and besides, his earlier punishment would likely be enough to convince the boy otherwise.

Looking out fo the window, the powerful monarch saw the unmistakable shape of her mount fly through the clouds, grazing past them with the tips of her long wings. "Soon Vhagar... soon we will have brought back everything that was promised as our birthright..." she whispered, feeling her bond with the dragon.

In that moment, Visenya felt her stomach lightly rumble, which meant that it was due time to break her fast.  
Smoothing the blood red cape on her back, the conqueror had the letter be placed in a small, leather container, one to be passed not by raven, but by hand; that was why the design had foregone the classical seal.  
But her brother would know and recognize that it came from her anyways: the scripture in High Valyrian was the evidence of this.

Once she was finished with that, she briefly made her way back to her chambers, to retrieve Dark Sister from its stand and to adorn it at her waist, feeling comfortable in its familiar light weight and slender shape.

The slices of strawberry pie that awaited her in one of the many halls was a welcomed delicacy that soon found shelter and safe passage in her gullet; whilst Visenya did not share her siblings' love for sweets and pastries, she did enjoy many of these more exotic fruits, especially the fabled dornish plums.

"Excuse me your grace, a man is currently at the front of the Dragon's Gate, demanding that he be let in." that peaked her interest some, so she turned her attention to the particular matter, "Does he share our descent?" "Yes your grace, he indeed does."

She stood up, having finished the small meal and cup of apple juice, "Have him be given a proper room, and call one of the stewards so that they might arrange a proper meeting with me directly if need be."

Then, one of the most trusted dragon maesters approached the conqueror, and offered the fearsome dragon a scroll, "From the Vale of Arryn, your high royalty."  
It was a curious sight to see the Falcon stamp once more after many a day, and she decided that it would be worth to give a proper look later, perhaps amidst a book of blood magic.

The servants were already working to clean away the crumbs that had been left by her eating, and Visenya made sure to wash the Valyrian steel of her claws, for it would prove to be of poor practice to grease whatever she touched.

**Aegon Targaryen IV**

"Why is it that Braavosi ships have been sighted near the island of Skagos in the North?" "We do not know at the moment, my king; please remember that this does not mean that the city is declaring war on you."

The young dragon scoffed as he sat down the large, circular table along with his advisors, "It does not mean that we are not to act with prudence. You all know that Braavos is a living testament to the despise of Old Valyria, why would they not seek to ruin our prospects and interests?"

Jon Mooton steepled his fingers, "I then advise that we must keep vigil around the south of the Neck. If the Braavosi's intentions are that of hindering the conquest, then there is no doubt that they will do so by aiding the most powerful of the two remaining kingdoms." another lord scoffed: "The North is nothing but a frozen wasteland of savages and barbarians, how could they possibly compare to our supremacy?"

Vaenar Sunglass gave the other man a condescending glare, "The Kings of Winter are no laughing matter my fellow lord. You would do best not to forget that they were the only monarchs out of the First Men that resisted against the Andal invasions, you must surely recall from the lessons with your maester of the vicious slaughter at Moat Cailin." much like his name, the collection of silvery white strands of hair covered his head like the rays of the sun, as they shifted with each cock and twist of it.

The riverlord appeared slighted at the cold remark, and his frown deepened gravely, "Lord Haigh, this is not the time to create enemies, if we are to live in peace during these new times, then we are to forge alliances with each other, and not separate ourselves over petty squabbles." "Yes, your grace."

Lord Vaenar had a victorious smirk plastered on his lips, one that did not go unnoticed by the Targaryen, "The same goes with you Lord Sunglass, enough with this arrogant talk, let us discuss like real, proper men."

"Aye, let us." Aegon waited a few moments to continue on with his speech, "As was being said earlier, it is not out of the chance of possibility that the Free City is set to help the Starks of Winterfell." "And to so wage war against us in an indirect manner." continued Lord Velaryon, "Precisely; they will most likely try and broker a pact with King Torrhen Stark." "That is if the Northmen do not send them back across the Narrow Sea in the first place; they are well known for their isolationist attitudes."

"Then it is not unintentional, that they have decided to land on that particular island; for they will have the advantage of a safe retreat if things go for the worst, and besides: the North certainly is not known for its fleets, much less their speed. That is why," Aegon looked over to the short, aging man, "I wish for you, Lord Haigh, to lead a force of seven thousand men strong and to fortify around the Twins." he commanded.

The riverlord bowed, "When will I leave, your grace?" "In a week's time, and I am also expecting you to bring an adequate force of your own household." "Y-Your grace, are the other, numerous bannermen not enough?"

Aegon gave him a patient look, "How many men do you think the direwolves can muster?" "I do not know your grace... but it ought to be no more and a couple thousand- "Forty thousand. All of them seasoned, and hardened by the harsh climate of their land. Do you understand now why it is imperative that our defenses be best prepared for the occasion?" "I-I do, your grace." "Good, now leave these chambers." the other man bowed and did so, the royal guards closing the doors behind his retreating form.

"He is not pleased with the situation." Jaegor Velaryon stated as the Targaryen looked over the painted table in the Small Council's chambers... yes, among many other things, the young dragon had decided to found an institution to help him better govern his new kingdom. The only matter left regarding it was the assignment of new masters to different seats of said council, and the task of finding the right men for them was painstaking and slow process.

"Aye, it is as obvious as the fact of that this model does not compare in the slightest to the original at Dragonstone." purple irises followed the engraved line that represented the Kingsroad, which stopped a few dozen miles to the right of the Twins.

"There is much that we don't know of the North, and whatever maps that are present in the dust ridden tomes are far too old and outdated to give a good image of the largest of this continent's kingdoms."  
"Your grace, we can spare a few merchant ships to attempt to go trade with the Northmen in White Harbor." the Master of Ships said, watching as his monarch continued to stare at the Neck.

"While I appreciate your honest proposal, I do not think that it would have the intended effect that we desire so much." the Valyrian bowed his head, "As you wish, my king."

"Your grace, Lord Haigh is proving to be more problematic than previously thought, I believe that I am in the right to think that sending him to guard the edges of our territories was no simple coincidence." Aegon hid his small grin from the Hand with a fist, "Indeed you are Jon; until we can have him removed from his position and replaced with a loyal bannerman, we shall actively work so that he may not plant seeds of revolt."

It was a clever move: that of keeping the least faithful lords close to him in order to have more opportunities of catching them in an unfavorable act. "What of the Freys?" Lord Vaenar Sunglass spoke up next, "They are arguably the strongest house in the Riverlands, along with being one of the richest." "The Lord of the Crossing, that is what the smallfolk call Lord Arbord, and not without good reason: the fee payed for traversing up and down the Green Fork is bound to generate a good portion of coin."

"A fucking coward, he is, as all the previous lords from that cursed line." it was no secret that the family who resided in the Twins was amongst the most infamous and disliked among the nobles of Westeros. Many, they were, always ready to jump at the occasion of grasping and clutching onto more power. It was a miracle that they had yet to fall from grace with the amount of slights and insults that they dealt to other houses, and it was indeed boggling as to why none of the Tully kings had ever attempted, much less succeeded in having them removed.

"It will be a boon to expand our control over the upper half of the south, and with the ancient castle, relations will ease with the Northmen and Valyrians." "That is without taking in account the fact that they worship the Old Gods... they shall be the hardest to convert." "They will bow to the fire of the mighty dragons, and their ice shall melt and brake beneath our wings."

Aegon had enough of this talk, so he harshly reprimanded the lord: "The Starks understand the North better than we ever will. If we want the remaining essence of the Freehold to expand, we will do it with time and patience." "So you would have us sit here like helpless dogs will abiding to use the power blessed by the Fourteen Flames?!" Lord Buckwell stood up, as did the king and a couple others.

"Mind your tone Buckwell! I will not have a fool and a mummer insult me, under my own roof no less!" Aegon roared, his fists crashing down on the table, "You are a craven and a greenboy! You are not worthy of being called a son of Valyria!" two guards harshly seized the yelling lord by the arms and roughly moved him away from the Targaryen.

"Your grace, what are we to do with him?" "Throw him in one of the Black Cells, perhaps then, with the lack of sunlight will your mind be cleared my lord."

"Cunt! Son of a whore!" the man screamed as he was dragged away. Aegon clenched Blackfyre's pommel in rage. "On the morrow, that man will die." he turned to look at the Lord Hand, "Let this be known to the other houses around the Blackwater, that no one will escape the King's justice and law." Mooton bowed his head in understanding, "I will get to work immediately then, your grace." "No, wait here, we still have more to discuss."

"Lord Velaryon, have a small group of vessels patrol the area around the Three Sisters, I want to know exactly when and if King Torrhen makes a move to bring his armies to the South." "Jon, send a raven to Edmyn Tully and Sharra Arryn and have them ready their banners." "My king, are we to prepare a for a coming war?"

Aegon looked away, closing his eyes and letting out a small sigh. Once again, he found himself at the head of the last family of dragonlords, and once again, he would go out and bathe the fields with fire and blood.

"Yes. Have a portion of our own swordsmen be prepared to leave at a moment's notice." "There will be many a man and lord alike, prepared to ride off to battle." Mooton quietly commented as he stood up from his seat.

"If the bloodshed can be avoided, then we will not give in to our desires for violence. The people of this continent have suffered enough." "Not by your hand, your grace." Aegon drank from a glass of wine, "Does it really make a difference Lord Velaryon? Even if I was not the one to scour the fields of grain and occupy the farms of the peasants, I am still the main reason for why they were at the end of their previous monarchs' brutality."

"Do not be so harsh on yourself, my king. For what it is worth, you are doing more than what is necessary to better the lives of the smallfolk." he grinned at that: "Due to no small part on behalf of Rhaenys."

"The people of Kings Landing love her." "How could they not? She is the very heart and soul of the dragon." he said. "That does remind me," he turned around to stare outside of the window to stare at the large, walled city that was being built day and night, "How many people does the capital hold?" "Estimates would suggest that the number stood at around three hundred twenty thousand men, women and children." the young king hummed in thought.

"We should be careful with how many set up residence, or the overpopulation will tax our resources faster than we can replenish them." "I would suggest imposing a limit to the height of the buildings and towers, your grace." "That is a smart idea. Jon," he looked at the Valyrian, "Have a group of dragon maesters conduct research on the safety of such constructions, and order them to appoint a limit on the proportions and stability of the material."

Then, a knock was heard and Aegon nodded his head to one of the guards, who let the person in. Dressed in fine clothing, the man presented a small symbol sewed into the breast of his coat, which showed three red chevronels over ermine. Varen Rosby stepped forth and bowed to his king, "Your grace, I ask for forgiveness in my late arrival to the meeting of the Small Council."

Aegon waved his hand, biding him to rise, "Do not worry Master of Coin, all of us know that your absence was with good reason, so please do inform us on the current conditions of the royal coffers." the platinum haired man adopted a troubled look: "The situation isn't as good as what you thought it to be, your grace."  
The Targaryen frowned, "Explain how?" "Currently, the balance of gold dragons is in defect, and while not enough worrisome yet, the coin that is spent each day will soon turn that balance in our disfavor, and will eventually lead to debt." "And what is the amount of gold that we currently have?" "Two million dragons your grace."

"Hmm. And you say this has to do with the spending regarding this city?" "Aye, your grace. At the moment, the coin that we are making is bout enough to cancel the coin that is spent." "Then diminish our payments by half."

"Your grace," Lord Sunglass intervened, "You could apply the set of taxes that have been prepared." "I had hoped to not have to ask my vassals of this just yet, but very well, see to it that these ministrations are expanded upon and brought to each house." he ordered Varen.

"We should focus on trade and our own economy your grace, so that the markets of Kings Landing may bloom with trade." "You read my thoughts Jaelys."

"This meeting has concluded my lords, I will see you all on the morrow." the others rose as well and collectively bowed to him.

With that, the young dragon made his way to the grounds of the Red Keep as it was called; the great castle built out of pale red stone, which gave it its name. The fortified walls and fourteen massive towers that were crowned with iron ramparts created an imposing figure that served as the center of the Targaryen's power and influence, the very culmination of the dragon's legacy.

The heavy footsteps of the guards behind him served as a calming touch, and the presence of Balerion in his mind more so.  
"Where is my sister?" "In the royal apartments, your grace." he nodded to the guard and directed his way there.

By chance, he passed by the massive hall that was the throne room, while it was still in the process of being built; but even then, the beauty and imposing shape of it all could not be denied by the viewer: the way that massive statutes of dragons were erected, to hold the ceiling of painted murals and the numerous chandeliers that hung from them, as well as with the complex creations of glass and metal that intertwined with each other was all meant to resemble the mouth of a dragon upon seeing it from the entrance of the great, massive hall.

And at the back of it was the Iron Throne, the monstrosity of melted and cast swords, large and all encompassing, seeming to be as hostile to the man seated upon it as to man who bowed in front of it.

"In all of my years, I would have never imaged the seat of my son to be such an ugly and detestable piece of steel." his eyes turned to lock onto another similar pair, and his lips parted to show a bright smile.

"Munã," he approached her, placing a small kiss on her cheek and she a hand on his own, "I thought you were with kepa on Dragonstone." "Am I not allowed to come visit my own flesh and blood?"  
He chuckled, "Oh no, of course not, who am I to say otherwise?" "I am glad that you remember my son." she frowned a little as her gentle fingers brushed against the small beard that he was growing, "Egg, you look horrendous with this tuff of hair."

Aegon snorted a little, but in good nature, "Munã, I am a man grown, I am more than capable of being responsible for myself." "That still does not change the fact that you will always be my little boy." "Obviously so."

Now come," she hooked her arm around his own and allowed him to guide her steps, "Tell me, what are you doing on this bright day?" her own group of protectors followed the royal guards, to form an impressive collection of armed men.

Valaena Velaryon was a woman of over forty namedays, but like all the blood of Valyria, she was as beautiful and splendent as the day that she had blossomed into a woman.

"Administering and ruling my kingdom dearest munã. Cousin Jaegor is proving his excellent worth in his position of Master of Ships of the Royal Fleet." "Is it a surprise? You know as much as your father that we Velaryons belong to the sea." Aegon placed a hand to his chest, as if struck, "And you would do renounce to your linage as a dragon?" they both shared a laugh as they walked through the portal of yet another chamber.

"Of course not Egg, I am as much a Targaryen as I am a Valyrian." "And that is why Embar is your loyal companion, and on that matter, where is he? I thought your arrival would be easily heard."

"I came by ship, and oh, no, do not give that look Aegon, I am not as young as I once was." "Do not lower yourself so munã, you are just as capable as Rhae, Vis and I." Valaena smirked.  
"It never fails to make me wonder, how your sister can spend so much time with Meraxes." "You can ask her yourself." he informed the elder woman as they came to stand in front of a set of ornate doors.

As soon as they entered, a soft melody was heard, one that belonged to the graceful and gentle harp, the most noble of all musical instruments.  
Valaena had a knowing smile plastered on her mouth, for she recognized the tune as the one that used to hum to the youngest conqueror when she had been naught but a little girl, frightened by the thunderstorms at night.

Turing around the nearest corner to arrive to the next part of the large chambers, the two dragons came upon the third as she strummed the last notes of the song.  
"Splendid my little hatchling, well done." Rhaenys turned around and quickly flew to her bearer, throwing her arms around her lithe frame.

"I was not expecting you here. Egg, did you know?" he shook his head no, and proceed to walk to the nearest and sit down, the crown of Valyrian steel and rubies coming down from his mane of white hair.  
"Come on you two, let us sit." "Always so commanding Egg, you never change." Valaena noted with a jest.

"Oh, my children, you are more beautiful than you were the last time that I saw you." the other dragonrider laughed, "So are you munã."  
The Velaryon's eyes gazed away from them, "The only one missing is Visenya, then we would truly be complete."

"Do not fret, you know that she had uncle Daemavon and aunt Maenna with her." "Yes. I still find it hard to believe that you have done so much Aegon, I am proud of you." he bowed his head at her praise, "I could not have done it without the help of my two dear sisters, and kepa's planning."

"Of course, do not think that I have forgotten of you as well sweet Rhae." she sat back, folding her arms over her lap and attentively waiting for them to initiate and take the lead in the discussion.  
"Do you not have anything you wish to tell me?" "Naturally mother, we were only wondering if you would be interested in knowing of it." "Why not? Please, do go ahead."

Aegon looked to Rhaenys for a moment and grasped her arm, "We are trying for child." Valaena rose to her feet and embraced the two, "That is wonderful news! I am to be a grandmother of another blessed child!"  
"Settle down munã," the young monarch told her with a laugh, "it will still take time, and the dragon maesters have told us that there is yet to be a pregnancy." "But I have stopped drinking the Moon Tea, so it is only a matter of luck." her daughter added.

"How long has this been happening? When was it that you decided on it?" "A moon ago, it is time to gift this realm with a proper heir." "Dear Aerion will be ecstatic to hear of this! Not a day goes by that he doesn't make some comment regarding grandchildren." they shared a quick laugh, "Does he now?"

"Your grace! Your grace!" a Targaryen swordsmen erupted in the room, startling the three; Aegon was about to set his wrath loose on him for daring to interrupt their privacy, but was beaten by the speed of the man's own words: "Lord Matanyx Buckwell has escaped his confinement and has left the city!"

The dragon had to hold himself from grasping the warrior by the shoulders and demand how that was possible, "How did he escape?" "I do not know my king, I only heard whispers that his own bannermen have helped."  
"Damn that antlered bastard! I want scouts and horsemen to set off after him immediately! He is not to arrive at his keep, send riders to Duskendale and Maidenpool, I want them to blockade all roads that lead to the Antlers!" he roared as he moved away from the room and to his own, his sister and mother right behind him.

"Egg, what are you doing?" "Punishing an unruly lord." he answered as a couple of servants helped him dress in his plated armor of Valyrian steel. "I will help my love." "Good, get ready as well and mount the skies with Meraxes, I will soon join you on Balerion's back." he glanced at Valaena, "Munã?" "I will do the same tresy." she replied with a nod.

Soon, he was waiting in one of the great open squares of Kings Landing, as the Black Dread was far too large to properly fit in the main courtyard of the Red Keep. Without wasting a moment, Aegon climbed upon his mount's large, spiked back, sitting in the saddle. He stroked the dragon's pure black scales, "Sōvegon Balerion." the beast let out an earth shattering roar and shot up into the sky, its great wings casting a veil of darkness over the many buildings that were in front of them.

With great, powerful beats of them, they were soon flying over the tall city walls, and into the open countryside. Hearing a couple of roars behind him, Aegon turned his gaze to see as both Meraxes and Embar coming to fly next to him. He waved at the two women and they returned the gesture, as Meraxes, being the smallest and fastest, took the lead of the flight.

Aegon was baffled that Lord Buckwell had somehow managed to escape from his confines, but it was clear now that the security and defense of the Red Keep were not up to a good enough quality, and that would need improvements very soon.  
A headache was beginning to form in his mind, and he began to realize just how tiresome and exhausting the position as a king could be.

_"That is why you must be strong Aegon. You are the future of our house, the future of Valyria. It will not be easy, my son, there will be moments of peace and genuine happiness just as there will be as many as those of dread and tragedy. But through it all, you must hold strong and be decisive in the face of the merciless powers of this realm, and when you inevitably fall, when you make unwanted mistakes and especially when the consequences come back for you, remember, we are Targaryens, we bow to no one but the Gods themselves. Remember that, Aegon, and your accomplishments shall be lauded and remembered for the rest of time itself."_

Aerion Targaryen's words echoed in his ears, "Do not worry kepa, I will never forget your wisdom. A king should never sit easy."

He pressed the Black Dread to fly faster, and the winged demon complied, rising higher through the clouds.  
As his iliac eyes scanned over the fields below, his attention was brought to his beloved Rhaenys, who was circling over something.

Excellent.

She had found the rebellious and traitorous lord. He watched with pride as the green dragon dove down and let out a torrent of flames, creating a semicircle around the front of the group of fleeing cavalrymen. In a moment's notice Embar did the same and complete encircled the rest of group, trapping them in a ring of flame.  
Now it was a matter of simply waiting for other reinforcements to arrive and help guard the numerous men at arms who were caught in the middle of the fire.

Every now and again, a couple lucky souls managed to jump through the flames relatively unscathed, and begin to run away. Alas for them, there was nothing that could quench the black dragon's rage and appetite, and Aegon surely was not going to deny his mount such things, as the screams of unfortunate men were heard as their bodies were devoured and bones broken to mush.

Valaena kept eye on the flames and would periodically breath new ones upon the old, to keep them from extinguishing completely.  
Inevitably, his own bannermen arrived at the site, and it was then that he dismounted from Balerion.

"Your grace, we have found no other men in the neighboring lands, they are all here." "Well done on that my king, it is as if it were a repeat of the Field of Fire." "The intentions are the same captains, let us now get this mess over with, there is a lord that must answer for his crimes.

The men of house Buckwell were shackled and tied together, as Aegon made his way forth to stand in front of them was Lord Matanyx, now forced to bend the knee to the Targaryen.  
"I thought you were to have more good sense Matanyx. It would not have come to this had you bowed your head and obeyed as always." "For what cause and reason? To follow a false dragon who will not enact as his heritage proclaims? Or to simply continue playing as puppeteers in this farce of a monarchy?"

The Targaryen regarded him with a wrathful look, and instead directed his sight to the dozens of men who were all kneeling as well in the dry dirt.

"Men of house Buckwell, you have risen alongside your lord against me, thus branding yourselves as traitors. I know that many of you must have wives, children who eagerly wait for your return. This must not necessarily mean that you must perish on this hour. Swear allegiance to me and your lives shall be spared. Renounce your loyalty to Matanyx Buckwell and you shall be welcomed again with open arms in my armies."

He patiently waited and watched as the first pair of swordsmen shuffled forward and hastily kneeled at his feet. Soon, more and more followed, until eventually, nearly all of the men had performed the action.  
Aegon nodded to the commander of the company of warriors, and the few men who hadn't moved to kneel were slaughtered, their throats slit and opened with daggers of dragon steel.

"You, my lord, shall not receive the same mercy, nor will I give you the decency to die by the blade." Buckwell was pushed away from him and an empty area of the ground, as Balerion craned his long neck, ready to let out his infernal flames.

"Dracarys." Matanyx's screams tore through the air as he crumbled to the floor, his flesh melting and liquifying from the heat of the fire.

Aegon turned to the commander, "Let his remains be, giving him a proper burial would be far too generous."

**New Valyria**

One of the many courtyards of the castle was alive with the otherworldly clangs and noises of two swords clashing with each other. One was of Valyrian steel, the other of another, newer alloy.

Visenya thrust her longsword into the chest of Raenor Vassatrus, one of the best swordsmen that she had at her disposal, as well as captain of her personal guard.

The able and experienced man was quick to deflect the blow and retaliate with one of his own, forcing the Targaryen to defend herself against a myriad of strikes and cuts.

The duel had lasted for the better part of ten minutes; but it was in those final few moments that the fighting had incremented to the levels now seen.  
Vassatrus was a fearsome opponent, and an even better fighter, for he proved to be nearly too much for the dragoness.

Visenya for her part was trying her best to keep up with the unstoppable rampage of the fellow Valyrian, but found her strength beginning to wane as more and more of her stamina was depleted. Still, the dragon would not fall, and she persisted in dueling against the man with all of her rage, fire and temperament, displaying a near equal amount of skill.

In the end though, it was not enough to win against the superior swordsmen, and it wasn't long before Vassatrus finally knocked Dark Sister from out of her hand. They were both sweating and breathing loudly, and Visenya bowed her head to him, "You are excellent as always Vassatrus." he bowed to her, "You have honored me, your grace."

The other blacksmiths and metal workers who had been patiently waiting at the side of the open space approached them. "Your grace, was the new design of the longsword up to satisfaction?" "Captain, what is your judgment?"

"The composite of Valyrian steel that runs along the edge of the dragon steel is sharp and flawless. It is a much better longsword than one made solely with dragon steel." the head blacksmith thanked him, before turning to the Targaryen, "Your grace, would you be interested to see the new design for the armor?" "Naturally, bring it."

The stand that hoisted the new version of plated cuirass was brought forth, and Visenya began to listen attentively as the blacksmith began to explain the improvements: "The plate has been increased in its thickness, and the old chainmail of iron has been modified to use dragon steel instead." the armor in fact was bulkier, and was mostly painted black with red accents, accentuating the three headed dragon in the center of the breastplate. "What of movement and flexibility?" "They are only slightly less than what they were before; but the added protection is to compensate for that. Also, the helmet now sports a collapsable face guard, allowing for easy access for eating and drinking, thus negating the need to remove the entire headpiece."

Visenya nodded as her eyes took in the details of the suit. It was made to resemble the likeness of her own armor, but had less than half of the red coloring. The major difference was the plume that loosely hung from the top of the helm, and the red cape.  
"These will be made to become the new standard that all swordsmen shall use. Also, each and every soldier shall now be equipped not only with a longsword and shield, but a spear too. For that matter Forge Master, you have also created a few prototypes?" and he showed her those as well.

"Good work, your skill and those of your helpers must be praised." she turned to look at a page, and ordered him, "I want the design of these new weapons to be sent to our lords," she spoke to the blacksmith again, "I want a laminated layer of Valyrian steel to be added to the pauldrons, gauntlets, grieves, chest plate and helmet." "Your grace, that will raise the cost of producing such armor by a noticeable margin, are you sure of it?"

Inwardly, she was pleased to see that the man was aware of such things, "No, these ones will be reserved only for the men at arms of New Valyria and Queensguard." "Very well your grace, production shall begin shortly, with your command." "See to it then."

"Captain Raenor, I am in need of your help, accompany on this leisure stroll." she commanded the Valyrian as her strong legs took her away from the courtyard.

"What is it your grace?" "The new gear that is being forged is of excellent quality, but that means that the household guard of my castle must be even better equipped, and most importantly, better trained." he eyed her proposal with interest, "You wish to form a new guard?" "Partially: the warriors that form the ranks of the royal guards are experienced enough, but they are few. As the cadet branch of my family, as well as the most notable house in the Westerlands, our swordsmen must be the very best of these lands." "I understand, and I presume that you want me to oversee the process of selection."

She nodded, "You are in the right and that is why I have ordered it so that the lower back of this mountain be turned to a minor city of sorts." it was the truth: Visenya had taken advantage of the rocky hill that sloped down to the plains nearby the formation. It still incorporated much unused space, and unused veins of gold and silver.  
Vassatrus chuckled a little, and the dragoness took notice, for it was quite uncharacteristic of the stern man to be humorous, "Would you care to enlighten me with whatever it is that brings laughter to your voice?" "With all due respect your grace, I thought that this complex was supposed to be your castle, not a city." she too smiled at that.  
Yes, it was ironic in a way, but the distinction was held in the fact that this new set of buildings would be made to house only warriors, soldiers, guards, and more classes as such.

To a commoner it would seem foolish to focus and spend so much coin on preparing for war, and by all accounts it was that way, but for the dragonrider, this was the only way to bring forth a new age, after all: if there was no one to defend the cradle of prosperity, then what would spare it from the ruinous powers of greed and stupidity?

"You have done well captain, remain posted outside, the next words that shall leave my mouth are for only a selected few to hear." she instructed the man, "Of course your grace, I will wait here."

Visenya had arrived in a very particular, and to some extent _'_ dark' set of chambers, closed off to the rest of New Valyria's lower inhabitants by a pair of tall, unmovable iron doors. Almost no one could enter through them, except for the ruler of the castle, and the Targaryen walked past them, her armored boots stepping on rows upon rows of glowing symbols.

"Your grace." a woman clad in dark clothing kneeled to her. Of her name or history, Visenya knew naught; but she was a sorcerer, a practitioner of dark magics that had been lost since the Doom.

"Dark Onee, I have a new order to bestow you with." "Your will is ours to realize noble one. The heart of the Freehold is alive with you, and with the creature of fire that you ride."

Dragons were fire made flesh, and fire was power. The dragons themselves carried a presence to them, the true roots of magic. It was only by their being that many a sorcerer could hope to work their craft without wandering to the far lands of Asshai by the Shadows.

"I seek that new weapons and armor be blessed and enchanted with your rituals." the other folded her thin arms in the drapes of her black cloak, the hood over her head hiding all but her mouth and nose, "How many will they be?" "Hundreds, possibly thousands."

The sorcerer took to walking to the nearest table, knives and bowls were present on top of it, but they all held some measure of blood on them. "What you ask for is something not easily accomplished. It will require many sacrifices so that the metals and cloths be blessed."

"You need not worry of it, soon, you will all the blood that you could for." "Blood magic is not an easy art, your grace, nor is it a safe one." "I have confidence that you will succeed in your task Dark One. If the warlocks require more, then I will make sure that is all cared for."

The woman faced her once more, holding a cup made out of obsidian. She offered it to the conqueror, and it was graciously accepted with a solemn nod.  
Slowly, the dark black liquid dribbled past her lips and throat, and Visenya's eyes turned to the same shade.

_The sky was that of fire and smoke, the ground and sea that of boiling rocks and water._  
_The black dragonglass and white marble of spires and towers shattered to the dark abyss below, leaving trails of flames as they went. In the distance, a single thing, a dragon, screeched in mourning as it was the last of its kind, and then, it too burned away, leaving nothing but dust._  
_Finally, fourteen days exploded from the mountains, and then there was nothing more, but silence and death._

Visenya blinked and held a hand to her mouth, her stomach violently churning and cramping. "The fate that befell our ancestors was a cruel one."

"We must make it so history does not repeat itself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tresy = son  
> Kepa = father  
> I know that I am a week late with publishing, and for that, you have my apologies.  
> School has been a nightmare these past few days, full of tests, exams and oral interrogations; on that note, the next chapter shall be delayed to next week.  
> Please remember to comment and leave feedback, for I wish to know of your thoughts and questions.  
> Until next time.


	8. Family and Solitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visenya uncovers a dangerous plot and Tyren begins to slowly realize the limitations of his position.

**Daemavon Targaryen II**

Wiping the blood away from his face, the Dark Bane stood among a scattered lot of corpses.

Still, his focus refused the clenched muscles of his fingers to let go of Night Blood, and instead gripped the blade tighter in his hand.  
He watched with calculating eyes as more of the enemy forces were pushed back.

The Westerlings were at a loss, their numbers dwindling in the couple of hundreds from the thousand strong that they once were; and when the red dragon that his wife rode made another pass, that number was halved, as both man and horse were set to the flame.  
They were inexhaustible, for ever after their lord had been killed, they still refused to surrender.

"All the more reason to have them removed from the Crag." Daemavon growled as he rushed to join the fray, his own guards staying close to his figure and protecting him from the back and sides.  
There were none who could stand to the sharp edge of Valyrian steel, as his first victim discovered with a horrified scream of pain as his guts spilled down to the floor in gory red mess.

Quickly, the dragonlord sped over to assist a group of his own men that were battling against a collection of landed knights whose shields were painted yellow and white, to represent the six seashells on the sands of the beach.

The Westerlings had been some of the strongest bannermen to the Lannisters in the many centuries of their rule, and as such it was not a surprise to see a fairly abundant group of heavily armored knights.

And yet, it was the Valyrians who held the advantage: while the Westermen had the better positioning as being the defending army, and thus having both familiarity and control over the territory; their castle forged steel could still not adequately compare to the superior alloy that was Dragon steel.  
Adding to that was the fact that the descendants of the Freehold made sure that each of their own foot soldiers and men wore just as much plate of armor, and that they had better training overall, meant that the previous strengths that the Westerlings held were for nothing.

With a snarl, Daemavon buried his Valyrian steel blade through the heart of another enemy, and brutally yanked it out in an arch of red mist to catch another swordsman across the face,cutting through his helmet and ear until reaching to his chin, nearly letting his jaw fall loose.

"Your grace! Stay in the formation, or we won't be able to properly assist you!" he heard one of his guards yell from behind, and for once, the Dark Bane of the Crownlands halted his advance, stepping backwards to regroup with his men.

The chaos around him continued as swords clashed against shields, spears pierced flesh and knives brought forth the cold grasp of death.

"Glory to Loren Lannister, King of the Rock! The Stranger take these heathen invaders and cleanse the lands of their filth!" a lone figure screamed their loudest, holding a heavy banner that sported the golden lion on the red field. Behind him, many of the rebellious fanatics roared with renowned hope and spirit, eagerly pushing back against the hard press line of Targaryen shieldmen.

"That one there! If we kill him, their morale will be broken!" a roar in the skies struck fear in the souls of the Westermen anew as Syïar descended to bathe the area with more flames.  
The conqueror knew that Maenna wanted to so desperately help him more, but alas nothing could be done as the opposing forces were now locked into a battle at close quarters; they would only torch their own men in acting so carelessly.

His own mount, Ordêmmōr, was currently occupied in preventing more enemy men from arriving from the Crag's gates, and as such, Daemavon was fighting on foot. He trusted his dragon enough to know what to do, it was their bond that spoke, that communicated desires and more.

"You! Concentrate your shots on that man!" he barked at the nearest archer. The Valyrian gave him a shout of respect and knocked an arrow on his bow, targeting the Weaterman that continuously waved the flag.

The arrow flew straight and it flew true, past the many dozens of battling men, across the wisps of smoke to finally pierce the chainmail of the rebelling swordsman, thus putting an end to his life as his body fell to the floor.

With the loss of the apparent leader, many of the Sons of the Rock became lost and fearful, some intact threw their weapons to the floor and began to run away towards the woods, wanting to escape the battle. Others were too shocked to get distracted and soon found themselves loosing their heads to the terrible blades of the Targaryen bannermen.

"Azantys! The enemy breaks under our fury! Let the Fourteen Flames guide your hands as we take the crown of victory!" using his charisma, Daemavon gathered the bulk of his forces to charge forward, crushing all of the opposition that remained and sparing none.

One, two, three, four, they were all felled by the blade marked with red symbols; and it was here that the conqueror placed his entire bloodlust to use, fighting like a demon that had crawled from the depths of the Smoking Sea, bringing forth the rage of the fallen dragons.

Another corpse landed on his sword, and it was only a matter of time before the last bannerman was cut down like a dog.

The Targaryen breathed long and hard, his lungs burned from the amount of strain that he had placed on them, as were the majority of the muscles in his limbs.

With a slight tremor traveling through the plain, he turned around and gazed at Maenna as she slid off the back of Syïar, ever as elegant and graceful in her movements.

"My love, are there more?" "No. House Westerling is no more." He placed an armored hand on her shoulder, "You did well in the skies." "As did you Dae. Shall we go see our captains?" He allowed her to move first and courteously followed behind.

It was an unexpected incident that had revealed the Westerling's treason against them, one that had happened out of sheer luck and coincidence: one of their Valyrian spearmen had by chance heard as a Westerling boasted of the fall of the dragons, singing gallant praises of the Sons of the Rock to tavern wenches and inspiring fools and mummers alike.

As soon as the discovery had been made known to them, their small army was prepared and they set out to slaughter the rebellious lord and his sons.

It seemed that the hatred of the Westermen for them ran deep, deeper than what had been estimated.

"Your graces, thank you for joining us." The commander of the small group of prestigious men spoke to them as they came into the war tent.

"Think nothing of it commander. How do our numbers fare? How many men have we lost?" "One hundred and thirty six, your grace." That was a moderately high number, especially given that they had fought with the advantage of possessing two adult dragons.

"And how did they perish?" "Taking the Crag, your grace."  
Yes, there was also the importance of the old castle to look into. And this meant choosing a trusted figure to act as the new lord regent of the keep, just as it had happened to Cornfield.

"All of the rooms have been cleared, the only members of nobility that remain are Lord Westerling's wife and daughter." "And of the Sons of the Rock?" "Dead, all of them." The Targaryen let out a small sound of disappointment: "You did not spare at least one of them? For torture and questioning?"  
The commander that he was staring at did not waver beneath his hard gaze, "It was the desired intention your grace, but we found the Westermen lifeless, their bodies already cold and pale." "So they deliberately killed themselves." He muttered a dark curse under his breath; they needed to know more about these rebels if they were to successfully repel any ambushes.

Maenna spoke next, "Do we have the manpower to hold the fortress?" The other Valyrian hesitated to answer: "No, your grace. Only a portion of it can be properly defended with all of the men." This was a worrisome problem.

He leaned in to whisper to Maenna, "We must speak to Visenya and ask for reinforcements, and she must be here to decide on whomever will keep the castle." She gave him an understanding smile, "I can arrive at New Valyria for the evening meal if I leave now with Syïar, and by the morrow, we could have this all sorted out and resolved."

"Very well, stay safe my love, and give Vis a warm hug by my part." They shared a brief kiss, away from the others in the tent, before Maenna left upon the red winged dragon.

"Your grace, what are we to do now?" "Settle in the Crag, and form the shift for the guards. We are to stay here until my niece arrives." They soon left the warm tent, and Daemavon found himself alone with one last commander.

"Lenalor, is there something else you wish to add?" "Your grace, if I may intervene, I believe that I am due a reward." He raised a white haired eyebrow, confused as to why the man would make such a deliberate statement.

"I think that we are not on the same page of thought, commander, so deign yourself to explain why it is that you must have further compensations." He sat down on one of the many chairs and had one of the servants give him a satchel of water.

"I fought in the front lines of the battlefield, your grace. Killed more than ten Westerlings with my sword, directed the advancement of our own troops and personally saw to the capture of the two Westerling women."  
Daemavon filled a cup as he half listened, half mused to himself on other issues, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the man's blabbering.

"So it is with these intentions that I believe myself to be worthy of receiving the Crag as my own seat." The conqueror gave him all of his attention and sneered: "You believe yourself to be worthy on militaristic merits alone then, am I correct?" "You are, your grace."

"Lenalor, tell me; do you know of the tasks and responsibilities that a lord must hold over his lands?" "I do your grac- "Then you must also know that the best lords are the ones who are smart and wise. Martial prowess and skills in fighting are secondary, perhaps even useless, when coupled with a lack of intellectual wit." He remarked, watching as the man's cheeks turned a bright rosy color.

"Your grace, it does not change the fact that I lead the charge- "And what of your fellow commanders? Did they not do the same as well? Then why is it, that they too are not here, ready to lick by boots in an attempt to garner my favor?" Lenalor's face blanched, in disbelief of having been dealt such a blatant insult.

"You presume too much, and act far above what your station consents." He stood up, pacing around the pale soldier like a hungry dragon that had cornered a lone lamb.

"I was expecting decency and outstanding performance on your part Lenalor, other commanders recommended me to include you in my service, but clearly," He stepped forth and snapped off the medallion that was hanging from his neck and on the front of his breastplate, "I have overestimated you." The conqueror said as he walked back to his seat, "Hmm... and to think that you had been praised with the title of Azantys... whomever gave it you was a simpleton indeed."

The Targaryen sat back down on the chair and played with the circular piece of metal, flipping it from one hand to the next. "Your grace, you cannot just- "I can and I will. As of this moment, you have formally lost this title as an Azantys. Be grateful that I was merciful enough not to strip you of your rank as well." "I-I..." The man stuttered, "Do I make myself clear Lenalor?"

The man bowed his head in shame, not daring to meet his better in the eye, "Yes, your grace. I understand." And Daemavon nodded, clicking his tongue as he leaned back. "Now leave, and reflect on your failure and lack of self control." "I will your grace. I bid you a good day." "To you as well."

With that, the dragonlord was left to his own thoughts, and so he was free to do what he pleased. "You, fetch me a couple of books from bags, regarding the tales of the Freehold." The servant bowed and went out to complete the task.

With a heavy sigh, the white haired man placed the medallion in one of desk's drawers, just as the servant returned. Making himself comfortable in his still dirty armor, Daemavon began to read of Jaenara Belarers' travel in the southern and unexplored continent of Sothoryos.

This would come to be a long and tense day indeed.

**Tyren Hill VIII**

Azantys.

That was what he was called and addressed by many of the Valyrians in New Valyria.  
He knew not whether to laugh or scowl at the thought of it.

The bastard Lannister laid on a bed in his chambers, huddled under heavy blankets and pelts.

Naturally, a fever had taken to him during the night, and now he was sick and weak because of it. Tyren was tired, simply tired of it all: of this realm, of his treatment at the hands of a woman who was to be called his wife, and of this realm.

His sentiments were hurt by the actions of the dragonlord, and now he did know what to think of her anymore.  
Gods, how he wished to have been born from different parents... everything would have been much simpler that way.

Tyren found himself yearning for freedom all the more, and yet he could not; the medallion that was placed on the desk to the side of room shined a little under the rays of the lone candle that gave off a small light to his dark bed chambers.

Azantys, it was naught but another forsaken title, not too different from the one of the cursed _bastard._  
His hair was matted with sweat, as was his forehead, and yet he still felt the cold seep into his flesh, almost as if he was still outside, at the mercy of the brutal elements that ruled the skies.

Hill blinked a few times, his green eyes having collected tears as they burned. It would have been nice if one of those dragon maesters had used their strange techniques to better his condition, but it would have been even better yet if Maester Hugar was to be the one to treat him.  
But alas, he knew that those were only hopeless fantasies.

The door to his room opened and Tyren raised his head, squinting to properly see who it was that had entered his chambers. His nerves calmed when he recognized the healer that had seen and tended to his wounds, and he allowed himself to sprawl back on the cushion that supported his head and neck.

Silently, the man placed a palm on his head, and then checked the healing cuts of his body, prodding them with his finger on occasion. He also did a few more things, such as checking the inside of his mouth and teeth for some reason.

Then, he asked him something in High Valyrian, and Tyren could not stop the groan that formed in his throat. "Yes, I have a headache, so please talk to me in Common."

"You must still get better at speaking our tongue Westerman. Eventually, Common will be long forgotten by nearly everyone in a matter of few decades." "Until that time comes, I shall continue to communicate with the language that I have always used." The healer gave him a condescending gaze: "It will severely limit your opportunities." To that, Hill did not answer, but instead opted to try and sleep some more.

"Some food will be brought to you soon. Remember to eat it slowly." "Of course." The man moved away from next to the bed, and gave him another piece of information: "Later, I will be back to assist you, for you must bathe and cleanse yourself."

Again, the bastard did not verbally respond, nor did he truly care too, as he had heard the healer's words.  
The noise of the closing door was the last that he heard, and Tyren was immersed in silence.

He moved to his side, resting his arms close to his chest as his jaw began to move on its own, a chattering sound. Damn this cold! It was frustrating him to no end, and causing his headache to worsen as well.

Grunting, he shifted his position once more, burying himself deeper under the covers and bringing them over his line of sight, bringing his legs to his chest.

It did not feel as if much time had passed, and that was why he was startled when the door opened once again, this time it was young maid that came through, holding a tray stacked with a bowl of soup and a cup of water, as well as a casket filled with many oranges, plumes and nuts.

"This is my meal?" He asked. "Yes." The girl spoke in heavily accented Common.  
On a second glance, it was revealed that the bowl did not contain soup but broth, and somehow that made Tyren's appetite increase by a small measure.

The temperature of it wasn't too hot or cold, but pleasantly warm, so he did not have too many difficulties in sitting up and holding it in his lap.

He took the offered spoon from the maid's hand and collected some of the broth in it, and wondered if it's coloration: "Is it lamb?" "Chicken." He nodded in understating and proceeded to swallow it.

A few minutes later, he had finished, and was using a cloth to clean his lips from any residue of the food. "Do you know," He began to ask as he watched the maid set the empty dishes back onto the tray, "when it is that I will take my bath?"

"No, Azantys. The healer will let you know when it is time to." The woman concluded as she set off to exit the chambers, leaving him in the presence of the gleaming medal, "Indeed he will." Hill muttered softly as he settled horizontally on the bed, the taste of the broth still fresh on his tongue.  
  
  


Unknowing of how long it had been, Tyren was awoken by his sleep as the healer from before came again.  
"What do I call you?" "Excuse me?" "We haven't properly introduced ourselves, or at least you have yet to do so. I cannot keep referring to you as healer, for that would be too generic a name."

The other man brought forth a glass of liquid, and Tyren did not hesitate to drink its contents. Soon, he felt some of the pounding in his head recede, allowing him to concentrate more clearly.

"Thank you..." "Gaor." "Thank you Gaor, this concoction helps." "I gave it to you for that reason." It seemed like he was not that friendly.  
A shame, truly. The bastard did not have friends or allies in this castle, and it was to remain that way.

"Come, it is time for your bath." Hill sighed as he raised himself off of the bed and began to slowly make his way outside, dressed in his bedclothes.

Thankfully, the people that they did pass by did not give him looks of derision, which helped curb the embarrassment away.  
By the time they reached one of the bathing rooms, Tyren was struggling, feeling the weakness actively fight against him. He nearly dropped to his knees in joy when he came to face the large pool of crystal clear water.

Silently, he took off his garments, but stopped at his small clothes, giving Gaor a pointed glare.  
"What?" He asked, " Look away." The other chuckled, "I have seen more men bare as the day in my life than you ever will; one more won't kill me." Tyren rubbed his face, not being in the mood to argue.

"Turn around will you? At least give me some decency." Thankfully, the man did just that, and the bastard was allowed to slip in to the warm waters.

"Do you feel any pain?" The healer asked as he stated at the cuts, "Not that I have noticed." "And what of your leg? Does that still hurt?" "If I put too much weight on it, then yes."

Gaor hummed and passed him a bar of soap, "While the wound is shallow, and the injury is minor, you should still not overwork the muscle, otherwise you will run into the problem of possibly losing the limb, and we wouldn't want that to happen now would we?" He was almost done with washing the sweat away and had stood up when a couple of maids entered the room.

Hill moved his hands to conceal his modesty, turning back and showing them his back. Even from there he could feel their heated blushes and teasing smiles.  
"Off with you two, leave my patient alone." Gaor chided them away, before speaking to him: "You may rest easy, they are gone." The bastard could not stop the heated look of annoyance that dressed his eyes, "Could you not have locked the door or something? Or at least could you have given some kind of sign to leave this room alone?"

"It does not matter, we are done here. Put on your garb, we must proceed forward." And Tyren did as so after drying himself with a mantle.

"Mother help me, I will perish from this damned fever." He groaned an shivered as his bare skin came into contact with the tepid air of the bathing chamber.  
"Do not exaggerate your condition; it will take much more to take down a young man of your age." The was a sliver of smugness in his tone, but Hill was too preoccupied with his own ailments to care about it, instead, he moved alongside the healer opting to simply ignore him.

But upon realizing that they were not heading back to his modest bedchambers, he posed a question to Gaor, "Where are we going?" The healer was more serious now, much more than before, "To the upper half of New Valyria. Here, wear this, things will only get worse if you catch a cold upon traveling the lift." A heavy pelt of black fur was placed upon his shoulders, and Tyren held it close to him.

"Why are we going up there? Is it because you need something in particular?" "No... and in truth it is not my place to tell." "Then I suppose that I shall simply have to wait to obtain my answer?" "Yes."

The clacking and rattling of chains continued as the wooden platform was brought up to the highest level that it could reach.

"Hold yourself close to the wall, we have many steps to take." Gaor advised him as they came across the first flight of stairs. "Alright, give me a moment." Stated the bastard as he placed an arm on the wall of dark black stone and steel.  
  


After going through a few more more flights, Tyren was ready to collapse once more: his breath was short, his legs felt heavy and the cut was beginning to ache, and the fact that the headache had returned certainly did not help him. Even if he had taken a bath less than an hour ago, he was soaked in sweat once more.

"Try not to spend too much time recuperating, we must not be late in our arrival." Gaor said as he watched the bastard pant and put his back to the screen.  
He now understood that he was made to come and talk to the Targaryen conqueror, it was evident that she wanted to speak to him. A part of him was scared, afraid of what would happen after this new encounter, the last time she had been furious when he lacked the medallion... and even now, it was not with him.

Tyren's eyes widened and his head shot to look at Gaor. He grunted to stand back up again and stepped towards the shorter Valyrian. "I don't have the medallion, the one of the Azantys! I need it!" The healer placed a calming hand on his upper arm, trying to placate him, "Here, I have it, there is no need to worry now."

The bastard breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that the prospect of another brutal punishment had been vanquished. "Sorry." He apologized, "I forgot about it." "Do not fret, whatever it was that caused you great worry regarding it, has passed." Gaor said, hoisting him up with some mild struggle as he was shorter and lighter than him.

"Come, we are almost at her highness' chambers." The healer quietly commented as they passed one of the royal guards, not bothering to even give him a proper salute.

Tyren recognized the lavishly decorated doors in front of him, for he had been in this very hall the previous day. "I will go in, and announce your arrival. Prepare yourself." "Thank you."

The healer was allowed to pass through the doors of ebony, and the lowborn Lannister waited, as his thoughts kept imagining undesirable situations.

Gaor returned, "You must go in, her grace has called for you." "Are you not coming?" He gave the healer a confused question, "I am afraid not. Her grace has made it explicitly clear that you are to be the only one in her presence."

So he was to enter into the dragon's nest once more, even more weak and defenseless than the time before.

"Thank you Gaor, for all that you did." He received a respectful nod in response.  
Ignoring the headache, he surged through the entrance and into the room, his eyes scanning it in search for the dangerous individual.

The dragoness was eating her meals yet, and because of it, she had yet to sit down at her table. Not seeing her anywhere, Tyren decided to carefully confirm if she even was there to begin with: "Your grace?"

No shouts or sounds of acknowledgment were given, and the bastard was left to contemplate his situation.  
Not knowing what the best course of action to be, the young man walked forward and towards the center of the room.

A sword scabbard and a dagger caught his attention as the light illuminated the gold carvings of the grips and pommels. Slowly, as to not put more strain on his shaking legs, the Westerman came to stand in front of the pair of weapons. His arm reached out to the knife, his fingers about to brush the exquisite leather of the sheath when an imperative and harsh voice seized him entirely: "Hill."

It took all of his effort to not jump at the sudden intrusion of the figure at his back. His instinct was warning him, and his gut began to churn with stress and anxiety. He thickly swallowed as his fingers closed into a fist, attempting to stop the light shaking that traversed over his entire body.

Tyren turned around and bowed his upper torso to her, "Your grace." he stated, bowing his head as he did.

"Look at me boy." the Targaryen conqueror ordered him and his gaze raised itself so that it met her violet orbs.  
Even now, she has yet to let go of their piercing effect. Tyren felt the urge to retreat, to leave the room, but he could not. The bastard could only try to hope that the conqueror was in a moderately content mood.

Carefully, Visenya let her eyes wander over his body, stopping to stare at the small tremors that she noticed were a common thing that the boy was having.  
The dragoness walked to him, and Tyren leaned backwards, until his lower back hit the table behind him, preventing him from escaping her approach.

Her clawed fingers came to take a hold of his chin, harshly keeping him still when he tried and failed to twist his way out of her grip. Though she had yet to speak a word, her gaze darkened, sending a silent threat to the bastard.

Hill stilled his movements and tried to keep calm as her gaze locked with his. The sharp tips of her gauntlet lightly scratched his skin as they descended from his chin to his neck, brushing past his jugular vein and finally settling on the medallion.

"So you have decided to finally wear it." She commented, letting go of the piece of metal, "I am pleased."  
It still did not put him at ease; if anything, he was more nervous now that she was so close to him, nearly close enough that the linen cloth of his coat touched the hard Valyrian steel of her plate.

"The healer told me that you are sick with fever... and it must said that he was right: you are paler than the white of the dresses that the maids use." she moved away from him and to towards another door.

Tyren followed behind her, knowing that she wanted him to. They arrived at her solar; the bastard knew this because this chamber had also been Loren's solar... back when the war hadn't changed everything and these halls were still draped in the banners of he golden lion.

"Sit." Visenya ordered as she settled into her own seat. Tyren felt relived some to at long last settle down and not have to extend more energy in standing straight. He was sure that the dragonlord must have noticed his exhaustion, but if she cared for it, then she did not show any sign of it.

"I am still not content with the way that you have acted Hill. You cannot act spontaneously out of your own will to do as you please." He opened his mouth and found the courage to answer, "Your grace, as I told you last time, it was to help a dear friend of mine." She raised her hand and he stopped.

"I do not care to hear of excuses: what is done is done, and there is nothing that can be changed of what you have done." Visenya placed her arm back down to comfortably lie on the desk.  
"You seem to have forgotten what your position is Hill, so listen well, for I will repeat myself only once."

"You are to be my husband, and the sire of the next generation of Targaryens. That is an important title that you must wear with respect and dignity. Until a proper arrangement is made so that the marriage is completed, you shall begin to take lessons in both mannerisms and duties that are expected of a lord." She spoke, her voice not softening in the slightest.

"Whatever friends you had in Queensguard or elsewhere do not matter anymore. They are naught but a product of a time long gone and passed. Know that you are treading on dangerous waters Hill. I shall not tolerate another farce like the one that you did yesterday." Her words were harsh and implacable, stern as the black stone that composed a good deal of the holdfast. Tyren gave her a nod, "I understand, your grace." "For your own good, I hope that you indeed have."

"This does not mean that your penitence for the incident that you have caused is over: from now on, you will not leave this castle, you will not carry weapons or move freely like you used to, nor will you get to meet with any of your past friends and contacts." He closed his eyes, and gave a hum of affirmation.

"Very well, your grace." "Your condition shall remain as such until you have proven to be worthy of my personal trust." With that she opened one of the drawers and pulled out a large stack of documents.

"I have other duties to attend. You will now sleep and live in one of the chambers of the family wing of the castle." The new development surprised him, "Your grace," She paused from setting the quill down on the parchment, her look one of a blaze of fire, "My quarters in the lower half of New Valyria are fine as they are."

The Targaryen let out a humorless chuckle, pearl white teeth shining like the fangs of her mount, "Are you so eager to stay away from me boy? Is it that you cannot stand my presence?" "No, your grace,I do not see a reason for why I should change the location of my bedchambers." "Because I wish it so, Hill. It is evident that the better option is that of keeping you close to me." She stated, still not letting him go of that haunting glare.

Visenya stared at his clothes state once more, judgement heavy in her approach, a tinge of disgust pulling at her lip, "Early on the morrow, a few of Queensguard's finest tailors will be here to take measurements of your body. I cannot allow you to look like a simple commoner, you would make me the laughing stock of the Westerlands." Again, he nodded in understanding, "Yes, your grace."

"Now leave and rest some more. I expect you to take to your lessons and duties as soon as you are capable enough of extended movement." The Targaryen said, already switching her concentration from him and to the scrolls.

Tyren began to move away after bowing but halted his steps when her cutting voice came to his ears for another time: "Gaomagon daor gūrogon bisa hae nykeā drīve naejot daor qanemagon aōha valyrio eglie."

The bastard stumbled a little with his words, but managed to give an appropriate and adequate response. Still, it was clear that the dragoness was not pleased in the slightest, "You have much more to improve. Will yourself to find the passion to master my tongue, or you shall forever remain isolated in this new realm." "Of course, your grace. My thanks to you."

After what felt like an eternity, Hill was allowed to put a barrier in between him and her, to escape from her deadly clutches. He closed his eyes and let out a small breath through his nostrils.

From his side, someone cleared his throat, and Tyren turned to see that it was one of the royal guards. "Ao issi naejot māzigon rūsīr issa." Were his simple commands, and the Westerman understood the words of High Valyrian; he placed his hand forward, indicating to the warrior that he was ready to go.

The Valyrian walked at a slower pace than what would have been considered appropriate for one of his skill and age, but Tyren had the suspicion that it had to do with him more than the guard. He was struggling once more with passing by the halls and twisting turns of the halls constructed in black stone and painted in red and steel.

Arriving to another part of the castle, the young man was lead to another door, which was imposing and towering as all the other great entrances, though nowhere near as monumental or elaborate as the entrance to the Targaryen's quarters.  
The guard pushed the dragon shaped knocker against the wood of the craft a few times, large, echoing noises expanding to the very edges of the wide corridor that they were in.

A couple moments passed and am audible clicking noise was heard coming from the inside of the chambers.  
The set of doors opened, and Tyren was greeted to the presence of a servant. The Valyrian bowed his head to the guard, and motioned to the brown haired man to come in.

"Kirimvose." He thanked the guard and proceeded to enter into his new bedchambers.  
At first glance, Tyren was stunned by what he was seeing: these rooms where much more spacious and well furnished than any of the past quarters he had ever lived in; the amount of silver and precious jewels that could be found in here was enough to put some noble houses to shame in terms of displayed wealth and power.

But it was not overbearing and suffocating as the style otherwise would have been under the reign of the Lannisters, for all of the glimmering and shining pieces were heavily contrasted by the large number of black curtains, flags, and banners that were hung over the walls of melted black stone. And the golden lion was completely absent from this reality, having been won over by the Valyrian dragon.

The bastard still could not believe that he was allowed access to such rooms, and as his emerald eyes kept wandering over the numerous details, he was eventually drawn to another door placed on one of the walls, that lead to an adjacent room.

Always mindful of his sickened and weak state, he wound his way to the second chamber, and was pleasantly shocked to find that it was a bathing room; one that held an entire pool of water that could be filled up in a whim and have its temperature be lowered or raised to the owner's desired preference.

Seven Hells, even the damned privy looked to be made of polished marble.  
Feeling unsettled, he returned to the main chamber of his quarters, were the servant was patiently waiting for his commands.  
With a finger, Tyren pointed to the drapes that hanged at the sides of the room's four large glass windows.

The Valyrian understood what he wanted and pulled the long pieces of cloth away from their apposite holders, so to block the rays of the sun. Turning around, he then made his way to the hearth that was built into the wall, but Hill raised his voice to stop him: "There is no need for that; it's fine as it is."

He looked over to the bed next and let out a deep, thoughtful sigh: the mattress was of dimensions large enough to fit in another five fully grown men. To Tyren, it was far too big, and in a certain way, unnecessary from a practical viewpoint.

"Grab me some of the bedclothes and put them here." He patted the stop where he wanted his clothes to be placed, and the servant turned around and began to collect his personal garments. "Good, you may leave now." there was no reply or exchange of courtesies after that, and Tyren was left alone.

With a light grunt, he slid off the pants from his legs, careful to not aggravate the large wound, and settled himself in the soft embrace of the silk bedclothes, which gently held his body in a tight grip.  
Now that the sources of light had been considerably obscured, the bastard deemed the conditions good enough to retire for some more rest and healing, and so Tyren found hospitality in the collection of pillows that populated the vast plain that was his new bed.

He wiggled some under the protection of the covers, so to generate some heat, and attempted to finally settle in the realm of slumber.

Alas, before he could do so, Hill felt the floor and post vibrate as a roar shook the outside sky. His eyes shot open, fingers clutching to the sheets and heart beating wildly, he sat up, the headache being momentarily ignored.

After that, there were no more bellows from the flying beasts of flames. Yet, he had not calmed, and his senses remained alert for some time longer before eventually, he concluded that whomever had come or gone had dismounted or traveled far enough away that they could not be heard nor seen.

"It is alright... there are no dragons here... I am safe."

**Visenya Targaryen VIII**

"The Westerlings have risen in rebellion?!" the ruler of New Valyria demanded as she stood up from her desk.

Opposite to her, Maenna remained seated, acting as mediatore to the powerful woman: "Peace Visenya. Your uncle and I have already taken care of the situation, and the revolt was put down with modest difficulty." That at least calmed her to a certain degree, as she raised a questioning eyebrow: "So there is no more fighting?" "I cannot tell you that, nor can I confirm my affirmations of relative peace with the denizens of the Crag since it has been a few hours since I've last been there."

"But the Westerlings are no more, yes?" "The male line is extinct, but there remains a few children and ladies." Vhagar's rider showed the spark of fire that was constantly imbued and brought forward by the most ambitious of dragonlords. "Then we can still act with some form of newly established nobility; like Cornfield."

"Yes, my dearest Vis, you are right in your assessment." Maenna crossed her arms over her chest, her fingers periodically tapping against the chainmail of her Valyrian steel armor.  
"Had you told me of this, I would have immediately come at your aid, why did you not?"

The older Targaryen let out a small laugh, and leaned forward to tenderly grasp Visenya's shoulder, "You do not have to worry about everything we do, you have many a responsibility already, me and Dae are experienced and old enough to handle ourselves." She paused to get up, "But now comes the part of picking one of our own to become the new noble head of the Crag, someone who is close and loyal to us, someone who will always support our claim, decisions and rule." "I see. Since it is too late to do anything now, we shall leave as soon as possible on the morrow. I will send for a unit of light cavalry and infantry to aid the occupation of the castle."

Visenya then advised Maenna to get up as well, "When you told me that you had experienced the taste of battle, I thought that you would have been entirely covered in grime and blood." The other Valyrian let a grin pass over her lips: "I am afraid that I must disappoint you, but you know as well as anyone in our family that I do not bode well with dirt and foul stench."

"Though I imagine that the same can't be said for Daemavon." "No, he was insistent in wanting to participate in the battle alongside our own men." The older woman said, warmth and adoration for her beloved clearly shining through.

"Captain Raenor, make sure that a sizable force is sent to the Crag; a few hundred should be enough." "As you command, your grace." The Valyrian man left his post and proceeded to complete his duty.

"I take that he is extremely proficient with the blade, yes?" Maenna asked her niece, "Indeed, it would be an interesting sight to see whom would win between him and uncle Daemavon." "You hold him in that regard?" "Even better: Raenor would be capable of keeping up against Night Blood, even if armed with an inferior sword. He regularly achieves victory over our weekly bouts."

The two Targaryen royals walked past the many halls of New Valyria, "As your host, would you care to eat the evening meal alongside me?" "Of course. May I know what it is that you have the castle's cook preparing?"  
"I do not know, so it will be a surprise for both of us. Here, please, seat yourself as if you were in your own home and do as you wish."

They had arrived at one of the more formal dining rooms where the table had already been set for the two of them. "Has anything noteworthy happened in the time since my last visit?" "No, nothing that is interesting enough to be spoken of at least." "It sounds like a terribly boring lifestyle."

Visenya drank some of the vine, "It is a small price to pay in order to achieve a prosperous future." "Of course, it is not as worrisome a burden when you have someone else to help you." "I'd imagine that Daemavon is of great comfort."

Maenna nodded her head, offering the other a smile, "And what of your betrothed? Have you decided yet on when to place the marriage?" It was then that Dark Sister's wielder stopped her movements and set her cup down, eyes narrowing.

"Not yet." the Targaryen dragonlord sighed, "Visenya, I know that you do not like to hear of this news, as I am aware that many before must have told you already; but you must consumate the union, both to finally tie the Westerlands to us by blood, and especially to finally produce an heir through which our family will live on."

The dragoness did not make eye contact, "There is still time, sodjisto." Maenna sighed, "There is only so much my dear. You are of five and twenty namedays yes? I am not getting any younger, and neither are you for that matter." She reached forward to hold her hands in her own, "Visenya, I still have around ten more years, if the Gods are good, to bring an offspring to life. And even if I don't, while disappointing, it would not compare to the responsibility that you carry."

Finally, the younger Targaryen resumed eye contact, "It is not easy. Hill is volatile, rebellious and too thick headed to properly sit still and obey." "What has he done to earn your ire?"

"He acted on his own will, and in doing so caused trouble that could have been easily avoided." The simmer of rage was returning to her, and Visenya quickly pushed it back down in the depths of her emotions.

"And so I presumed that you had him punished." "With the intention of having him realize the mistake that he made." She defended herself with guarded words.

The other one was about to speak but paused as the doors to the great room opened and a line of servants came forward, platters of fine food stacked in their arms, and many more bottles of wine and water held in their fists.

She waited until the dishes had been set on the table, and that her cups had been refilled; then, she allowed herself to speak again once the last of the maids closed the door behind her.

"From the way that you talk of him, it seems evident that you do not spend much time together, do you not?" Syïar's rider questioned, still not making a move to eat her meal.

"No, we do not." Visenya spoke flatly, opting to consume her own slap of steamed lamb enriched with spices from Pentos.

"I am not your mother Visenya, nor am I my brother. What I am though, is a member of out family, and as such, as the last dragons, we have a sworn duty to look after one another. And it is with this logic that I advise you to attempt to get closer to this Tyren Hill." "Our relationship is fine as it is already." "For now, yes, you have the right of it. But what about when you will be wed as husband and wife? Will you keep the same distances and barriers that you do at this current time?

The conqueror settled her fork and knife down on her plate, fully engaging in the battle of stares as the two dragons abandoned all of the niceties and courtesies that were common in giving.

"Why do you care so much sodjisto? Do you not believe me capable enough of bearing children?" Maenna leaned forward, her voice getting softer, "Fourteen Flames no, Vis. Your drive and indomitable will shall see to that. But I am worried for your happiness."

The dragonlord did not waver in her standing, "My happiness matters not when compared to the importance of our future. Blessed unions and loving marriages are a rare thing in this realm, and I have made my peace with that long ago." "Still, you must not limit yourself to such things; your personal gratification and desires do deserve to be- "I do not care for importance or memory. I could care even less of the image that will remain of me once I am long buried in the ground. The smallfolk may remember me as a cruel, harsh and unforgiving ruler, but if that is the cost to ensure the revival of our legacy, then I would not give it a second thought in acting so." Her violet eyes were as glacial as they were sharp.

Maenna sighed, wishing that her fellow blood and flesh wasn't so stubborn in her views and beliefs, "You still refuse to see things in a different light." "Is there any need to?" "Yes, dammit! You do not understand it yet Visenya! What I am trying to do, what me and Daemavon are trying to do both- She stopped, halting her words and taking a breath to calm herself and recompose her emotions.

"Forgive me Visenya, it was wrong of me to shout at you, for I am still your guest in this grand fortress." Dark Sister's wielder did not treat her with a veil of equal anger, but instead offered cordial talk: "Do not worry sodjisto, I know that you mean well."

"Visenya, please, at least promise me that you will make an effort to get to know this lowborn Lannister better. Please, I ask of this for your own good. The guilt that I would carry would never let go of me, knowing that you would be forced to endure decades of a loveless marriage." She held her hands once more, getting closer to her.

The Valyrian woman closed her eyes and nodded, "Very well, I will try Maenna. Now you do not have to worry yourself over this anymore." The other sat back down in her seat, finally handling the eating utensils, "I hope so Visenya. I truly do, my niece."

After that, they changed the subjecting talk to other things, and as the minutes passed, the air in the room became lighter and less serious in its tone. Naturally, the wine helped with that, as did the fine cuisine that they were treated to.  
By the time that they had finished, the sun had just set over the dark waters of the sea,

"This was a delightful dinner byka mēre. I thank you for your hospitality my dear." Visenya let a rare, relaxed smile grace her fair lips, "Think nothing of it sodjisto."

Maenna got up from the chair and let out a blissful sigh, "I should discuss to Dae the matter concerning the cooks. The ones at Castamere are not half as good as those that are here." A yawn threatened to escape from her mouth, so she resolved to simply excuse herself.

"I find myself having grown tired of the day niece. I shall retire to bed, if that is alright with you, of course." "Naturally, do you wish for me to show you to the guest chambers?" Maenna lightly chuckled, "You seem just as tired as I am. Do not worry for me, focus on yourself byka mēre. We shall fly to the Crag come morning, correct?" "Yes. Good night sodjisto."

And with that, the lady of the castle was left to her own thoughts.

**A few minutes later...**

As Maenna followed one of the many servants, she came to the family wing of New Valyria's innermost keep. She was ready to slip into the warm and soft confines of a silk laden bed.

But even if she was feeling swallowed by the urge to sleep, her hearing was alert enough to pick up the faint noise that came from the door to her immediate left.  
Brows furrowing, she stopped in front of it, wondering if her age was beginning to make her hear things that didn't exist.  
To her surprise, she heard another noise, and recognized it as a shout.

Her purple eyes looked to the servant, "Who lives here?" "Tyren Hill, your grace." That served to increase her curiosity regarding the condition of the bastard, "Why is it that I can hear shouts and yells coming from his chambers?"

"Your grace, I...- "Did you not think that it would be best to see it he is alright?" "He is ill, your grace. A fever has taken to him." But it did not quell the thoughts of curiosity as to why the Wearerman was acting like that.

"A fever is not the cause for screaming..." "This is not the first time that it has happened, your grace." Maenna gave her a harsh glare, causing the girl to bow her head, "Then he suffers from nightmares?" "Yes, your grace."

"And why is it that you do not help him? He is to be the husband of this castle's lady." "It is of no use your grace. That is what I have heard, and this is the first night that I have been awake with my duty." the maid quickly explained, likely wanting to avoid the wrath of the dragon. "I have only recently begun to attend to the lady's keep, and I am trying my best- "Speak nothing more of it, it is of no use." With a dismissive wave of the hand, she turned her attention to the door once more.

Slowly, she walked up to it and extended her arm, her fingers brushed over the slender handle made out of soft wood and closed over it.  
But then she stopped.

While a part of her wanted to investigate, to see what was wrong with the youth, Maenna realized that this was not her place to interact or do as she please. She would have to remember to not cause distress to her niece regarding her marital affairs, if it could be avoided.

She had already given her much to think, and for the moment, it would do.  
With the determination, she stepped back, leaving the handle alone and faced her body away from the portal.

"Go on girl, do not keep me waiting." The servant bowed her head and almost scurried away, obviously in an effort to not displease the royal Targaryen more than she already had.

With the blessing of the Fourteen Flames, it would all turn out for the better; the morrow held a lot of unknown factors in it. But she was a dragon, and dragons did not bow before others.

**With Daemavon...**

"Your grace, there have been no sightings of the Sons of the Rock, nor of any other members associated with the Westerlings."

"Good work Velanorys. And I have told you already that you may address me by my name when we are in each other's company." The Valyrian guard softly laughed, "Then it would not hold much sense to give such a title of importance." He laughed more at his own jest and the Targaryen shook his head; a small smile was present on his lips though.

"Damned wyvern. I question myself on why I even tolerate your presence. Remind me once more what it is that stops me from having you sent away?" The other tapped his chin, "Mayhaps is the fact that I do a fine job in keep you safe and unscathed... maybe it is because you would have no one else to confide to."

"How unfortunate." He drawled on, but doing so in a humorous and friendly fashion. "In all seriousness though: have houses Banefort and Marbrand made any moves to assist the Westerlings?" "At the moment, no. The ravens that have arrived from Castamere tell that as far as we know, they too are unaware of this treachery."

"Hmm. It is of some comfort to know that some families are good and true enough to not work against their rightful rulers." "Perhaps it is due to wit and common sense?" Velanorys offered his point of view, "It could be that way, yes."

Then, barks of orders from outside were heard, and one of the posted guards entered the tent, "Your grace, your wife and princess Visenya are arriving on their dragons." Daemavon quickly made his way past the open flap of the main tent that was being held by the guard, and came to see the two unmistakable shapes of Vaghar and Syïar.

Some of the men cheered upon seeing two of their monarchs fly over the camp, and the Dark Bane let them, for it helped boost the spirit and morale of their forces.

Ordêmmōr was flying around them in low circles, undoubtedly happy in being able to interact with the other two great dragons.  
They finally came to settle in the nearest clearing, away from the tents and temporary stables in order to not scare the horses away.

The three Targaryens shortly exchanged warm greetings between each other, briefly allowing themselves to calm in the face of a concerning matter.  
"Vis, my love. I am content in knowing that you are here with me now." "As are we uncle. There is a question of inheritance to settle is there not? Shall we see to it?" With an open hand, he guided the two of them to the war tent and settled inside.

"So you are saying that the only true Westerlings that remain are the wife and daughter." "Yes, if need be, we could have them be married to the person that will get to keep the holdfast." Maenna made a small sound of distaste, "Still, it is not a decision that must be enforced; the poor woman may be traumatized by the actions of the idiotic lord, hence, she might as well have had no part in the rebellion, perhaps she knew not of it."

"Just as she could have easily been aware sodjisto, we cannot exclude the possibility of it." The conqueror spoke, harsh and implacable as always.

"Then I would suggest in organizing a formal meeting between us, to gauge her feelings and regarding all of this; we could then have the true confidence needed in deciding if she had a part in all of this foolishness." Daemavon proposed to the two women.

"Very well, let us see were this path brings us."

"Since we are here, it is only natural that we talk about who shall this castle go to." "Visenya, do you have any suitable candidates?"  
The Targaryen thought about it for a moment before answering: "There are a couple, one is a general, and the other is an influential merchant."

"This merchant, what kind of person is he?" "An honest one, thankfully, and hardworking too." She explained, "His name is Baemond Quarreos, and his work specializes in the listing of several ships used to trade and keep commerce blooming."

The Dark Bane quickly realized what her intentions were, so he spoke his mind of it, "Let me guess, you want the Crag to develop a port city?" "Yes, it would help better distribute the wealth and culture of our roots to the rest of the Westerlands." "So we can expand further then we already have."

Maenna steepled her fingers, "It sounds like a beneficial plan, but can we be sure that this Baeomnd is the right man to oversee such an arduous project?"  
"I believe he is sodjisto: his family originates from Driftmark, and they have been long loyal to the Velanorys since the days of old. And better yet for us, he has never tasted better revenue since immigrating here to Queensguard, and is known to be one of our staunchest supports; in fact, he has made a few donations from his own fleet of ships to our own and has offered their service for our own uses."

"Then what about this general? Whom is he?" He pushed forth his curiosity with another question, "Aegel Aglatos." Maenna clicked her tongue with interest, "I heard that name before, was he not the one who confronted the Tarlys during the battle of the Field of Fire?"

"Yes, he prevented the Reachmen from flanking our position with their heavy cavalry." "A good commander then, and even better warrior if he managed to beat them at their strongest point."

"Personally though, while he is certainly capable of administering the keep and all of its lands, I think that Quarreos would be more naturally inclined to this task, and he simply offers more opportunities and advantages if given the position." Visenya offered them her plan, "That is not to say that we must act so; if you have any inclinations to a better alternative, then please speak of it, this is an important decision after all."

The white haired man smiled, "I will not lie that a part of me wants to give this castle to Velanorys, but I digress, yours is a better idea niece." "Dae, do not speak ill of that Azantys, he has proven his worth many times over." She gently chided him.

"Sodjisto, what about you?" "I had in mind of assigning the keep to Salaessa Laeneris, our steward at Castamere." She started to talk, not moving away from her relaxed position, "But after discussing of other candidates, I find myself agreeing with my dear husband here."

"Then it is decided, Baemond Quarreos will take the Crag as his own, and found a dynasty of noble lineage." She saw that Maenna frowned, so he indulged her to speak: "The only problem that I can see arising will be the reaction of the other houses. They may not accept it as easily as we wish."

"They will have to then, and besides, we have all of the rights and justifications needed to do so: the Westerlings rose in rebellion. That action alone already warranted a more severe punishment, some other lord paramounts would have not hesitated to have the entire family massacred and slaughtered." Daemavon stated, his tone hard as iron.

"It will be at this point that I shall call for all of our vassal houses to come to New Valyria and swear loyalty once more. That should hopefully dispel any other treasonous lords from following in this house's footsteps." "Smart. This may also give you the chance to install a few more spies, correct? Your Spymaster will be hard at work when the time comes."

The dragonlords continued to converse and plan, eventually going over other troubles that would be needed to address in the near future.

"The fact still remains that we still haven't rooted out all of the members of the Sons of the Rock." "Then it is high time that their danger may be made known to the Westerlands as a whole. Prizes in gold dragons should be placed on discoveries of coves or secrets regarding the nefarious group." "Yes, for the moment I will have to hope that the imminent raid on one of the ships headed to King's Landing will produce a few prisoners..." "Let us hope for that to happen then."

**A moon later...**

Tyren hissed in pain as the sharp sting of the live steel left a very thin cut on his leg.

Raenor Vassatrus was proving once again to be the most skilled opponent that he had ever faced: his movements and speed seemed to be out of this world, and the techniques that he implored in his strikes were complicated and disorientating to properly block, and were even harder to counter.

The captain of the royal guards was relentless in his pursuit in defeating the bastard in their sparring matches, and as an instructor he was very harsh in his teachings.

Rather than talk about them, the Valyrian had taken to quite literally beat the bad habits away from his swordsmanship. The numerous welts of dark blue that had racked both his limbs and torso had yet to disappear, and would only ache more as they were struck anew with each mistake that he repeated.

But if there was an advantage to this new, harsher method of teaching, it was the fact that Tyren had come to learn how to bear pain better than he did before. And his other skills with the blade improved along with his stamina.

The droplets of sweat that creased his eyebrows were annoying, irritating as they gave him the urge to vanquish the itch that they generated; but alas, Tyren had to concentrate on the opponent in front of him, knowing that he could and would take advantage of even the smallest moments of brief distractions.

He waited as the other continued to slowly circle around him. With great speed, Tyren struck two blows in quick succession at two angles, but they were repelled and he received a harsh bite over the side of his stomach with the flat of Raenor's blade.  
Perfect, there was another bruise to be added to the numerous series.

"If there is not a good enough opening, then do not attack. And remember to always conserve your energy; do not be careless with it or you shall quickly find yourself fatigued and slowed down." The Valyrian stated just as he bolted to him, letting out a series of precise slashes over varying heights.

"Your sword must be raised higher when you intercept blows aiming towards your head." "Do not forget to move; you must never stay in the same position for more than a few moments." "Do not let yourself me caught by the excitement of an easy victory, stay controlled with your emotions and stay on guard at all times."

The lesson continued to go on, and new cuts were added to the growing collection that Tyren was sporting.

A thing that did not help was the matter of the presence of the Targaryen conqueror.  
In the past fortnight, she had taken to spectating their duels, observing with her own dark lilac crystals as Hill's physical proneness was increased.

It always made the bastard more alert whenever she was near. It was as if his senses were warning him of a danger that she presented... and he truly felt that she did.  
There was an undeniable ruthlessness to her, and Tyren had learnt first hand of the cruelty that she was capable of exuding.  
He could not find an ounce of compassion in her... and he was expected to marry and live the rest of this life with this woman.

Hill then attempted to poke his sword through Raenor's guard, but instead found himself on the receiving end of the royal guard's own poke.

"Do not bait your opponent if you are not ready to properly set up a trap." Of course, Tyren had never managed to receive a single compliment or word of praise from the man.

And quite honestly, he could not help but to find it disheartening that he had no other indication of his progress as a swordsman, other than the fact that he managed to last a little more with each bout.

At last, the Valyrian lowered his sword, and Tyren mirrored his stance, knowing that the duel had come to an end.

"Hill." He heard the Targaryen speak behind him, and he turned around to watch her walk closer to him. "Go bathe and see that a healer tends to your wounds. After that you are to join the dragon maesters once more to study more of the Freehold's ancient history." He did not say anything, opting to simply proceed with his daily tasks and duties, but Tyren did give her a bow of respect.

Letting out a small sigh once he was away from the training yard, the bastard leant his back to the wall and grunted in pain as he massaged his arms.  
They ached terribly, as if hot iron rods were being pressed against them, searing his fresh to a black color.

"Seven Hells... lend me strength." he muttered as he resumed his walk to his chambers, being mindful of not dirtying the divine carpets with his blood.

"Healer? You," He called to the young man who was stirring a pot. The Valyrian gave him a confused look and quickly switched to High Valyrian: "Where is Gaor?"

The other answered something back, and in truth, Tyren found his speaking to be too fast for him to keep up with, so he tried to simplify the phrases that he heard in simpler sentences, and managed to understand that the healer was not currently present in New Valyria.

The Westerman entered and showed him his wounds, indicating that he wanted them to be dressed. The boy said something else, which roughly translated to him inquiring on whether he had bathed or not, to which Tyren shook his head no.

Silently, the healer gave him a few bandages and shooed him away, eager to return to his own work.

And so less than an hour later, the bastard found himself in a large library populated with the esteemed dragon maesters.  
One of them was lecturing him on the second Valyrian-Ghiscari war, and had instructed him to follow the lesson on the heavy tome that had been placed on his lap.

Every now and again, Tyren was required to read some passages in the Old Tongue, which he found hard to do, considering that there was no translation, and many of the sentences contained pieces of speech that were still very new to him.

"Se tōma zaldrīzoti angotan nēdenkiri- "No, you are not pronouncing the word well." The Valyrian halted him from his reading, and Tyren gave him a questioning gaze as the other came besides him to point at the written letters: "Nēdenkirī, not nēdenkiri; you must properly accentuate the vowels that are marked so, otherwise you will formulate nothing and speak nonsense." "I understand." He repressed a sigh of annoyance, wondering why the language of the dragonlords needed five different accents.

"Stop now, and tell me what is happening in the story." Hill licked his lips as he formed an answer: "The three dragonlord families are engaging the Ghiscari's empire in a decisive battle by the Painted Mountains." "Be more specific, against what exactly are my ancestors fighting?" "...Ten Ghiscari Legions." "Incorrect, they were nine. Pay closer attention."

He closed his eyes in annoyance, for his nerves were beginning to be grated upon.  
"Now continue." "The battle was fought and was quickly won when one of the dragon riders tore the Ghiscari prince to bloody shreds with his jaws." The dragon maester gave a hum of approval, "And?"

Tyren quickly read the next passage, "The rest of the Ghiscari surrendered, and were taken as prisoners and then slaves."

"Indeed. Good, we have nearly ended the second conflict, so I would say that it is time that you started with the third- The maester stopped abruptly, and Tyren gave him a look of confusion, seeing that his purple eyes were staring at something else. "Aōha dārōñe." The man said and bowed.

Immediately, the Westermen turned around and did the same, understating that the conqueror was at the entrance to the library.  
"Hill, gather your things and come." He did as told and hastily followed behind her.

He kept his eyes on the direction which she was taking him, and he understood that he was being led to the tallest levels of the entire castle, close to her chambers.

Tyren also noticed that she had changed out of her typical Valyrian steel armor, and was instead dressed in what appeared to be black leather, which formed a suit that seemed somewhat made for riding. Perhaps it was to ride upon her dragon?  
But other than that, the rest of her usual attire was the same: her hair was still combed into the single braid, and Dark Sister was once again strapped to the belt at her waist.

They did not arrive at her quarters like he had been expecting, but instead entered another, smaller room, which held a simple circular table, some bookshelves and all of the other ornamentation that were common all around the mountain.

She took a seat on the place of honor and watched him with cold eyes, "Dīnagon se tembyr ilagon." It seemed that they were going to be speaking in High Valyrian.

Cautiously, he did so and sat down as well, keeping his posture straight.  
"Sir ivestragon issa hen skoros ao emagon gūrēntan va bisa tubis." She then commanded him, and Tyren began to recount the lesson that he had been attending.

It unnerved him; the way that she kept staring at him unnerved him terribly. Typically, the dragoness would have been doing something else whilst he was reporting to her; most of the times, she would be occupied with reading over documents or even eating a meal.

But not now.

Now, she directed her entire attention to him. Solely on him, as if there was nothing else in the room other than his presence.  
The fingers of his sword hand were urging his conscious to have them wrap around Brightroar's hilt, but alas the blade was not at his side, and for the first time since he had been separated from the Valyrian steel sword, Tyren actually felt its absence and wished for it to be back on his belt.

So he hastily repeated what he had learned earlier, giving a general description of the second war.  
It went without saying that he tried his best to use simple enough terms in High Valyrian, for he still had yet to gain the confidence in using more complex words.

The Targaryen's face did not change it's demeanor over the course of his tale, and because of that Tyren could not know whether he was pronouncing the accents correctly or not.

When he concluded his speech, he waited for the dragonrider to assess his performance, and calmed his mind of the worries that cursed it.

"You are proceeding well with the history, but your usage of adjectives still requires more refinement." He was eternally thankful that she had decided upon communicating in Common now.

"House Targaryen participated in that decisive battle." The bastard raised an eyebrow at this, "Truly? I found nothing of the written text that regarded this." "Because it is not well known, for it was only one of my ancestors to have taken part in the conflict, compared to the dozens of riders from the other three families."

There was a brief pause of silence, and Visenya leant back against the padded leather of her seat. "Soon, I shall host a feast in New Valyria's halls in celebration of the victory over the Westerling's defeat and undoing. All of the houses from the Westerlands shall be in attendance."

Tyren gave a short nod, "I intend for you to carry yourself with dignity and respect. You are to be my husband, so you must present an appropriate attitude with how you talk, act and move." The Targaryen spoke to him.  
"This will also be an opportunity for you to show that you have grown. That is why I want you to seek out and discover any potential threats to this dynasty. Of course, you must do this subconsciously as to not render my guests wary of their position."

"When will the banquet take place?" "If all goes well, in a fortnight. With that in mind, you will now be taking lessons in etiquette as well as dancing." He raised his eyes to her again, "What?"

"You must learn how to properly dance, if the need arises." "I've... I've never have the chance, nor do I have experience in doing so." The dragonlord crossed her arms, "Then you have adequate time to learn the basics."

He still must have looked unsure, for the dragoness let out a sigh of annoyance, "You do not need to become a master of it, you are not a jester. The simplest of moves will do just fine for this occasion."

Tyren cleared his throat, for he wanted to take a burden off of his shoulders; it was something that had been heavily weighing on his mind: "When will we marry?"

Visenya gave him a sharp glare, and he presumed that it was because he was questioning a matter of great importance. "That will be decided in the future. For now, do not worry yourself over these decisions."

In that moment, something from deep inside of him broke, and a shimmer of rage pushed through his self control: "It is a decision that concerns me a great deal."

"Are you insinuating something Hill?" Visenya questioned, daring him to talk back. But Tyren did not stop his own rage from emerging: "Yes I am. This is not something that can be simply be considered secondary like a simple choice; I expect to have a say in this matter."

Her lips curled back and her violet eyes narrowed, her voice lowering to a calmed growl, "Are you forgetting your place once more Hill? Do you need another reminder as to why you must not overstep your bounds?" Poison was laced around her threat, promising an unfathomable amount of pain and suffering.

"You do not. What I want is a say in the matter." He spoke, his own words as sharp as the fangs of the animal displayed on his father's sigil.

"You best remember that a lion can be burnt by flames." She stood up, "Now leave and return to studying High Valyrian. From now on I will not have you speak Common anymore."

He raised himself from his seat as well, and bowed his head, though it was easy to tell that it was forced.

"Do you understand Hill?" Her dangerous position was contracted and clenched, as if she was going to attack him.

Green emeralds clashed against purple amethysts in a battle for dominance, "I do, your grace."

With that, he turned around and walked away, opening the few doors that separated him from the outside of the conqueror's living wing.

Upon coming to the nearest corridor, he nearly crashed against another man, so he apologized and offered his hand. "I beg you pardon."

The Valyrian got up and gave him a neutral look: "Please refrain from running in these halls, otherwise accidents like these will be of much more frequent nature Lord Tyren."

That was something new, "Lord Tyren?" he asked uncertainly, "Yes, you are to be her grace's consort, correct?"  
"Yes... who might you be if you would excuse my curiosity." "Do not worry, no offense was taken, I am Talaemon Malnaris, Master of Craft."

"I presume that you seek an audience with her grace?" "Indeed I do. Would you be so kind as to point to me where I may find her honorable presence?" He moved to the side to allow the man to pass.

"Follow the corridor, she is in one of the minor rooms." "You have my thanks."

If Tyren had been more attentive, then he would have realized that the man had spoken in Common instead of High Valyrian; but his rage prevented him from seeing things clearly, the unusual fire of it was an irregularity... and it was an emotion that he hadn't felt in years.

Not at this level at least...  
  


**Shortly after...**

"There has been a theft of a few barrels of Wildfire."

The Targaryen stopped writing with her quill, and looked at the Master of Craft. "What?" Was her response.

Malnaris swallowed in preparation of the delivery of the report, and squared his shoulders, not shrinking away from her gaze.  
"Some barrels of Wildfire are missing, the servants have searched the entire mountain top to bottom and they have not been found." "How many?"

"The first reports seem to indicate five, your grace, but it could be that there are more that have yet to be found." "When was this discovered? Why was I not made aware of this?" She came to stand before him, and Talaemon wisely lowered his gaze.

"About two hours ago, your grace. A search has already begun- "That will not be enough." She interrupted him and quickly moved away from the room, with the Valyrian following close behind her.

"Your grace, what is needed that I may do?" She briefly gave him her focus as she made her orders known: "Have the lower docks of New Valyria be closed, the caves that led out to the Sunset Sea must be blocked by the castle's garrison." "And what of Queensguard?"

"I shall see to that, now go and complete your task." He stopped trailing after her and took another route. In this rare instance, Talaemon would forego his usual manner of moving, for he knew of the gravity of the situation.  
  


Visenya was being closely guarded by two Azantys at her back. Besides her, captain Raenor matched the speed of her steps.

"Have the port be closed and the gates to the city closed. No one is to leave or enter Queensguard until the barrels of Wildfire are located and recovered." "Your grace, the dangerous liquid may have already been sent off to sea." "It does not matter, we must first be certain that it is not in the city."  
This was unprecedented situation: Wildfire was highly volatile, capable of burning even stone. Whomever had access to it was automatically thrust in a precarious position, for the untold capabilities of destruction of it could have caused the deaths of hundreds, possibly even thousands.

"Servant, have my Spymaster be called immediately! They are to come here at the moment!" Visenya barked at the nearest Valyrian, who set off to do as told.

"Vassatrus, relay the message and then join me at the council chambers." "Yes your grace."

Soon, she was seated and was eagerly awaiting for the arrival of the other important members of her rule.

Eralys Taraenyon was the first to come, and coincidentally, she was the person that Visenya wanted to speak to the most.

"Your grace," She bowed, "I have heard of what has happened, and I apologize for my failure to prevent this accident from happening." "You do not need to worry yourself over this Spymaster: the nature of this theft was beyond what could have been expected from a normal day like this." She spoke just as the Captain of the City Guard came forth through the doors, followed by the Harbor Master.

"If everyone is here, then I shall not waste time with pleasantries; jars of Wildfire are missing from our stashes, and are now in the hands of potentially nefarious people." "Your grace, the city has been locked down, all of the citizens have been instructed to return to their homes and remain there. I have groups of men searching throughout the districts for these bandits."

"Consequentially, so have the docks been stopped in their activities. Additionally, I have sent a few ships after the ones that have just left, those will properly searched and their crews will be adequately questioned." The Valyrian was quick to speak.

"Then have a raven be sent to Castamere, King's Landing and Dragonstone. The rest of my family are to know of this unfortunate happening." She said as a map of New Valyria's inner composition was brought forth.

"Your grace, the barrels of Wildfire are kept in these rooms here, at the very bottom of the storage areas." "Some workers are paid to take a daily count yes?" "Indeed your grace." "Then it is logical to conclude that there must be a traitor amongst the servitude, a Valyrian no less." She muttered those words with clear venom, for she could not believe that some of her own people would be behind this act.  
Clearly, not all of them had the best intentions towards the construction of a new Valyria.

"Spymaster, I want you to organize a mass interrogation, starting from the lowest of levels up to the royal guards that walk the halls of this floor." "It will take much time your grace, possibly more than what we currently have." "Then get to work."

Visenya turned to the others, "The same goes for you: focus all of your energies in discovering this traitor." "Of course your grace."

"Cellarys, stay here." The man who held the responsibility of upholding order and justice in Queensguard's port stopped his movements and waited for more instructions. "As the person with most experience in seafaring, I wish for you to give me your impression on the possibility that the Wildfire is being carried by ship."

"If I am to be honest, your grace, I believe that it would be the most likely option, as well as the safest one: traveling by road presents many challenges, especially when concerning the rocky terrain that is riddled with holes and cracks. The agitation provided by these inconveniences could be enough to set off the foul concoction."

"So you think that it will be moved that way?" "I do." The Targaryen looked over to the map of this portion of the Westerlands. "If these bandits have yet to set sail, then they already most likely know that the city will be heavily guarded and patrolled. And that furthermore means that they are going to be leaving on a small vessel."

"There are many places that would consent such an action your grace." Cellarys spoke, pointing out a few of them on the spread paper. "Have a number of ships patrol the coast from here to north of Crakehall. All manner of ships and boats are to be stopped and thoroughly searched." "Yes your grace, I shall see it done."

Once more, the conqueror was left alone.  
These concerns were of great danger, and truly, she feared for the implications that loose Wildfire could bring.  
From now on, all remaining barrels would be relocated to new fortified rooms, built solely to contain the explosive green liquid. That would hopefully limit the likelihood of incidents like these happening once more.

"Your grace?" Visenya lightly turned her head around, watching with the corner of her eye as a page slowly made his way forth. Gripped tightly and securely in his hands was a scroll containing the Targaryen stamp.

Gazing back to the map, she held her hand open, waiting for the page boy to move, "Give it to me." With that, the young Valyrian walked away, sensing that the monarch wished to be left to her own thoughts.

With precision, the conqueror broke the wax, and just as she was suspecting, the letter had been written by her brother.  
The contents of the message were minor to an extent, detailing new developments and changes within the political landscape of eastern Westeros, and did not concern her that much.

But what did stand out, was Aegon's request for a sum of gold dragons, three million to be exact.  
While this wasn't a problem for New Valyria's coffers (for they were still very much filled with treasure, even with all of the spending that had been done to change the two melting pots of Valyrian power) it did make her wonder on the state of King's Landing's economy.

The unspoken truth was a little troubling, and Visenya planned to send another letter back, with the want of understanding if her family needed more of her help.

"Tyraxes, lend us your wisdom in this time of need." She whispered the small player to one of Valyria's deities.

Needing to clear her mind, she stood up from the chair and made her way to the Dragonpit. A flight on Vaghar's scaled back would certainly prove to be soothing to her psyche, and it was with these goals that she mounted the great silver dragon and took off into the sky.

**Aegon Targaryen V**

"I was not expecting to turn into a grandfather so soon my son. What brought forth the sudden change in your and Rhae's desire?" Aerion Targaryen spoke as he slowly walked down the winding steps of the long stone staircase.

"Truly, I do not know kepa. We simply both had the want to do it, nothing more than that." The king of the five kingdoms answered back as he kept pace with his parent.

The two dragonriders were currently enjoying a slow walk over Dragonstone's stormy hills and cliffs, letting the cold and refreshing breeze of Blackwater Bay brush over them.

Whilst the day was still very clouded in its skies, it did not do much to deter from the island's rugged beauty.

And with the calming silence and lulling sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below them, it was only natural that they were both put at ease with the disposition.

"Muña said that you would be much more jovial of the situation, and yet I find you oddly composed. Is there a particular reason for this?" Similarly as the last question, Aegon put his own curiosity at the other's front.

"Oh, I was happy and joyous. You simply did not have the chance of seeing me in those moments, but Valaena got to witness it, and I'd say that she will not be forgetting of it for a long time." "I do not know whether your statement should concern me or not; will I be having another sibling in nine moon's time?"

They both laughed at his jest, Aerion more so than his only male offspring.  
"It always intrigued me as to why you politely declined to come and stay with us in King's Landing; but coming here has reminded me of our home's beauty. I had forgotten that Dragonstone offered so many wonderful sights that are pleasing to the eye."

"More than that Egg, the density of population is much lower here and than in your capital." "We still await you kepa. If you think that your presence is too much of a strain on our available beds then think again; there no one who will deny you the right to come."

"Son," He stopped walking, turning to stare at him. "I am nearing five and fifty namedays of age, and I need not a dragon maester to tell me that I am long away from the prime of my life." "Kepa, don't say these things, we both know that they are not true."

"Aegon," He stopped talking and instead softly clasped his hands on his son's taller frame, "Even as dragonlords, there are some things that we won't be able to change. In the end, death comes for us all, whatever we be smallfolk or kings."  
"The truth is that I would fail horribly if you were to give me a position amongst your council in King's Landing. Out of all of the siblings that your grandparents had, it was obvious years ago that I was the least adequate for the role as monarch. That was why it was decided that the Conquest would need to wait for another generation."

Aerion was solemn and calm, surprising the scion of Valyria with his words, for this was the first time that he was hearing them.

"I am simply not made to traverse the landscape that is composed of politics. In this small bay, filled with Valyrian houses, I was put at ease by the fact that all of us descend from the Freehold." His hands then moved up to gently cup his son's cheeks, "The person that you want me to be is not the one that I am, nor that I ever will be."

"I am sorry to tell you this my son, but it is the cold truth of this world. That is why I will stay here on Dragonstone and govern things. If the need shall ever arise, then sweet Valaena will handle things in the capital." Concluding his speech, Aerion stepped back and crossed his arms behind his figure.

"I... you surprised me father, I was not expecting a confession of that proportion." "Did it disappoint or overwhelm you?" Again, they both shared a content laugh and resumed their walk.

"It is interesting: in these past few days I have begun to read about the histories of the other kingdoms, and I have come across a curious saying that is common in the North." "Which is?" "The Kings of Winter are fond of stating that 'There must always be a Stark in Winterfell', similarly, comparing my own disposition, one could argue that there must always be a Targaryen in Dragonstone." The oldest member of the Valyrian family said.

"Hmm. Perhaps it will become a tradition then, given enough time and patience." "I do wonder what moniker the historians will give me."

"Aegon, I still have yet to know, but what are your plans for to conquer the rest of the continent?" Aerion asked. "The North shall come first, and Dorne will be last." "Why not fight against the Martells first? They are closest to us and moving our troops to the sandy marches will not require a lot of preparation."

The monarch clicked his tongue, "At the moment, the Starks are poised to launch an invasion if they feel theater enough, the Twins have been fortified, but I fear that the Northmen still have a better advantage in the Neck. What worries me truly is the fact that Braavosi ships have been reported to have docked on the island of Skagos... if the Titan of Essos allies itself with the Direwolf, then the Iron Bank will try to stagger and weaken our rule at each and every step that we take."

"That is concerning indeed, but I have already known about this for a moon; have there not been any changes in the situation?" "Not that we know of. I have half a mind of simply taking Balerion and put those bastards to the flame, to send them back in pieces of charred flesh and ashes. Maybe then the Braavosi will finally learn to keep their own concerns to themselves."

"Peace Egg, remember to not let yourself be guided by emotions, they are a fickle thing." It was here that Aegon stopped and presented his father with a grin: "You insist on being the most inadequate person to take on a roll in politics, and yet you speak like if you were a veteran of the art. What is it with you today? Did the Fourteen Flames command you to tell me these things?"

"It is my duty as a father, to educate his brood the best he can. Mine are simply words of advise, and you are free to not heed them if you do not want to." The Targaryen said, permanently stopping to sit on a flat rock.  
"Ah... these bones aren't as strong as they once were, a part of me fears that they'll snap and break under my own wait." He was truly in a good mood on this day, and it had been years since Aegon had seen such embers of joy.

"Sit down next to me Egg, let me rest for some time." Together, they watched as the rough waves of water formed and dissolved in the Bay. There were a few lone ships making their way to Driftmark, and even Dragonstone itself.

Had the weather not been that violent, then there would have been tenfold more vessels; that was a figure that had become much more common with the militarization of new fortresses along the Hook and Cracklaw Point.

"You will at least be present for my coronation, yes?" "Naturally, it would be offensive and quite frankly insulting if I didn't. Dear me, I can already hear Valaena's angry shouting." And that was enough to put him at ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaomagon daor gūrogon bisa hae nykeā drīve naejot daor qanemagon aōha valyrio eglie = Do not take this as a reason to not sharpen your High Valyrian.
> 
> Aōha dārōñe = Your grace
> 
> Dīnagon se tembyr ilagon = Put the book down
> 
> Sir ivestragon issa hen skoros ao emagon gūrēntan va bisa tubis = Now tell me of what you have learned on this day
> 
> I tried to make this chapter longer, and as a result I've put in a few things that shall lead to future plot points. The conversations that were had between Visenya and Tyren may seem a little disjointed in regards to Tyren's thoughts, but that is because he is now realizing the true extent of his position.  
> Please remember to write down your thoughts, criticisms and ideas, and until nex time.


	9. Feasts and Dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I just wanted to say that sentences in quotation marks written in italics are meant to be read as High Valyrian, also, I will give a warning now, for there will be some graphic depictions of torture later in the chapter.

**Tyren Hill IX**

With a huff, Tyren tightened the collar of his shirt. He never could have known that preparing himself for such important events such as this one could take so much time.

What was truly tiring was the fact that he needed to appropriately combine the colors of the various clothes that he had been given. The chief taylor of New Valyria did not guide him in the choice of what to wear; rather, he seemed intent to tell him to try out every possible combination of dresses.

He had half a mind that he was doing it only to spite him, and for that, Hill had already decided that he did not like his company.

In the end though, he managed to settle for something simple: a pair of pants that were inland in silk and that displayed lines of red that curled around the black expanse of the cloth. The tunic that he wore over his chest was similarly colored, except for the fact that there was an insignia of a roaring lion, nearly identical to that of the Lannisters; however, even if this was custom made to show his connection to the paternal part of his family, it did not have any distinguishing features, for it was colored in a plain black.  
Almost as if it was effort to conceal the extinction of the once royal house.

The rest of his clothing was made to resemble the Targaryen dragon, and the three headed sigil was sewed into the left side of his breast, mirroring the lion.

While it had taken much arguing with the tailor, Tyren had finally convinced him to let him dress this way, even if the man had stated that he looked more of a Northerner with all of the dark colors and shades.  
And perhaps a part of him wanted it to be that way: he could already tell that this night would not be to his own enjoyment... the bastard had never attended a feast, even when he was under the custody of Loren; he only knew the basic things of the event, and that had been because he had been taught of them.

Gods, he could already feel the many glares that would be directed his way by the other nobles. The unspoken hatred that they would immediately attribute to him would be a frequent constant in the following hours, and he was most definitely not in the mood to experience it.

Come to think of it, Tyren had been constantly angry and frustrated in these past days, whether it had been because all of his time was spent practicing High Valyrian or learning curtsies and how to properly dance was a matter that could be discussed for long, but there was something that kept bothering him, and the thought of not knowing what it was proved truly annoying.

With a sigh, he placed the Azantys medallion back over his neck so that it could comfortably rest against his chest.  
A barber had cut his hair again, making it shorter along the sides and thinner over the top, but he had also shaved much of his growing stubble, much to Tyren's discomfort.  
All that remained now was a light mustache that connected to a small scruff along his chin, forming a goatee.

Having finished with dressing himself, the Westerman could at long last come in front of the large, rounded mirror and take a look at how he appeared.  
In complete honesty, he thought that he looked better than what he had been expecting, and actually felt adequately comfortable in these sheets of silk, even if the tunic seemed to constrict his movements a little.

A knock to the door of the small chambers brought his attention towards its direction, and he allowed the visitor to come in: "Enter, it is unlocked."  
He had been expecting to see either the barber or the tailor once again; instead, his green eyes were treated to one of the royal guards, whose's armor lightly rattled with each step that he took.

"You are ready?" He asked in accented Common, and Tyren spread his arms out a little, "I believe so. You wouldn't happen to have anything to tell me? Concerning my state?" The Valyrian shook his head no, and moved to the side to let him pass, "Come, it is time to go."

Brushing any of the remaining wrinkles away from his outer tunic, Tyren made his way out of the dressing chambers, and proceeded to walk forward, taking a left as soon as he could. After being forced to live in the upper parts of the castle, the bastard had come to learn of its many rooms and locations, as well as which paths and stairs to take in order to reach his desired destination.

Additionally, the fact that he was always followed by a pair of guards helped memorize the layout of the keep faster, as they were often to suggest where it was that he needed to go.  
Tyren would be called a liar if he said that he did not feel the slightest amount of anxiety, but he did some. It was probably due to this being his first proper feast, and the fact that he did not particularly like to be in places that were crowded with many a people... he was ought to prefer the quiet halls that were filled with silence.

He could have take the route to the main entrance of the hall which was hosting the celebration, but he did not desire to go through it: the steward that was sure to be placed at the pair of doors would yell out his name and announce his arrival.  
The Westerman had no want for that to happen, the more he could be left alone and away from the center of attention, then the better.

"Where are you going? The feast is this way!" "I know." Was his curt reply. "Why is it that you wish to enter from a minor door?" Again, he sighed at the stubbornness at the guard, cursing his luck for having been paired with one of the more intrusive one.

"I do not like feasts or celebrations, there is too much commotion, and I do not want to worsen the commotion of it." Thankfully, the Valyrian swordsman stayed quiet after that, and the rest of the walk was spent that way.

Tyren was allowed to pass through the wooden door that was being used by the servants, who at the moment had yet to fully begin their work as the celebration had yet to officially begin.

The grand hall that he entered was massive in proportions, so much in fact that its ceiling was round in the shape of a dome; however, it did not mean that it was not well decorated in Valyrian architecture and design.

He needed to take only one single look to realize that this hall was built in a different fashion compared to the rest of the castle, because for once, the black rock and steel had been substituted with the pearly white shine of marble, silver and gold.

The great, octagonally shaped room was structured so that it was composed of a large section and a taller, smaller one.  
The main part of the hall held all of the tables reserved for the nobles, placed around the edges of the perimeter and flanked by the various sculptures and titanic paintings that adorned the walls and columns. The center itself of the floor was left bare, and it was evident that all of the dances would take place here, among the beautiful shapes of intricately woven gold markings.

At a smaller part to the left of the hall was a space that was specifically reserved for the many musicians.  
The latter part of the gargantuan room was raised by a few meters, accessible by a grand flight of stairs that lead directly to the high table, which overlooked the rest of the hall.

Even if the atmosphere of the place was populated by soft tunes and gentle laughter and talking, Tyren spotted the numerous guards that were posted at intervals and the portals of exit, along with many crossbowmen and archers being put in the high ramparts that ran across circularly over the room, creating the perfect placements for such type of warriors.

Scanning the inhabitants of the hall, Tyren spotted many of the vassal houses, recognizing their members thanks to the colors of their clothes and the sigils that some had displayed over their robes.  
They were all mingling among each other, talking and interacting, some eating, some drinking and some simply sitting at the tables in the designated chairs.

Still, he also noticed that the Targaryens had yet to appear, and as the hosts, the conquerors had the honor of officially beginning the feast when they pleased.  
It was then that Tyren heard someone cough behind him.

He turned around and saw that it was a servant, and when he raised an eyebrow in question the other spoke: "Kostilus dīnagon azantys." Hastily, he stepped aside and left the minor door clear of his obstruction.

Hill was content to simply remain standing where he was at the moment, and for a couple of minutes everything seemed to be going fine, but a Valyrian woman stepped next to him and signaled to get closer.  
Tyren, slowly did so, being cautious of this unknown individual, and his ear was brought to her lips, allowing her to properly whisper, "You must interact with the other Westermen Hill. Remember what her grace asked of you."

He gave her a guarded glare, "Who might you be?" "Elarys Taraenyon, the Spymaster of her grace Visenya." He calmed at that new information, and now knew that she was an ally of sorts.

She turned and walked away, but not before the bastard grabbed her arm and held her back: "Before you go, tell me if there are any nobles that are suspicious." With practiced movement, she detached his gripping fingers from her delicate wrist, and looked at him in the eyes, "The Presters first and foremost, and the Kennings as well." He gave her a respectful nod and set out to do that.

Tyren kept to the edge of the hall, locating the Lord of Feastfires keep. From the great number of people that swarmed over a single table that had been draped in the sigil of the red bull, it was apparent that the Lord had brought much of his own extended family. Particularly, house Prester had the largest amount of its members currently present, more than any of the other houses.  
It seemed odd and the Azantys was quick to realize that his journey to reach Lord Cerran would be most likely blocked and trouble from the large group of young men and women that kept moving back and forth around him.

Tyren stopped a servant and asked for a cup of vine, and soon his mouth felt the sweet taste of the red liquid. He let his eyes wander over to the paintings and murals that were placed on the tall walls, but every so often, he would swiftly look over to the Prester, and he slowly stepped towards their direction.

Naturally, his was a mummer's act, meant to fool any who would be too attentive. Hill made sure to drink slowly and modestly, as this helped to fake the impression that he was deep in thought.  
Inevitably, he kept proceeding towards the table, and soon bumped against a man, nearly sending his own goblet cascading to the floor.

"I beg you pardon my lord." "No, no, do not worry, the fault was my own in not looking towards where I was moving. All is fine my... lord?" The blonde lad asked as he stared at the red three headed dragon.

"Please, I am not a lord; I am Tyren Hill, it is a pleasure to meet you." The other Westerman's eyes grew harsh and he seemed to step back, as if Tyren were infested with Grey Scale.  
He looked at his open hand as if it were a dagger, and only shook it when Hill asked him a naively confused question: "My lord, is there something wrong?"

"No... there is not... Hill." "I am glad to hear of it. Do the festivities fancy you?" He asked with a false smile. Inwardly, Tyren cursed: he already despised this situation, and wished to simply leave the hall all together.

"They are grand, and much more interesting than what I had been expecting." "I share much of your view, my lord. It is not often that I am given the opportunity to attend a feast, and each time I am left stunned at the great affair that they form." Another lie, passed through as a courteous snip of small talk; but it was needed, for the Prester still looked to be uncomfortable with being near him.

"Indeed they do." The lad avoided his friendly stare, and instead looked over to the table that held his other family members." "You are of house Prester, yes?" Tyren asked as he looked over as well."

"Aye. Come, it would be only right if you met with the patriarch of our family." The man guided him forward, past the other Westermen who stopped in their interactions to stare at him in suspicion. Tyren made sure to give them warm smiles, trying to ease the forming tension.

Soon, he was brought in front of the man who lead this noble house. "Lord Cerran." Tyren greeted him and presented his open hand. "The Golden Bastard of Casterly Rock, or is it New Valyria now?" The other answered coldly, and the Azantys let the smile recede from his lips.

Cerran stood up, entangled in his outstretched arm was his wife, "This is my wife, Arice." "My lady, it is a pleasure to meet you." She silently extended her hand and Tyren laid a soft kiss on it, not missing the twitch of unease in her facial features as he made contact with her skin.

"I find that this day is treating you well my lord." "It could be better though." Tyren drank some more, "How so?" "You could be removed from this hall, and along with you the shame of sin that you keep perpetrating all over this great castle."

He narrowed his eyes, as his back went rigid, "There is no need to be so severe and crude my lord. This should be an evening of fun and leisure, I see not why it must end this way."

Cerran spotted the sigil on his chest, and scowled at him: "Only the Seven would know that I am not surprised to see that wretched dragon on your vest. Was murdering King Loren not enough? No... instead you had to turn your back on your family as well." The other growled through grit teeth.

"The times have changed my lord. I shall always honor my father's legacy; but if you couldn't notice yet, we are under the rulership of a new dynasty. You saw first hand what happened at the Field of Fire." "You nothing but a green boy, who desires power and control beyond measure. You have no honor."

"Honor is a fickle thing my lord. It is something that is easily learned by those who are born out of wedlock, but I'd imagine that you've never had to have the misfortune of living that life." Prester's jaw clenched, and his fists closed.

Tyren gave him a condescending glare, "For our own mutual good, do not bring this situation to the point of no return, my lord." That apparent let allowed him to regain some wit, for he relaxed his arms, "I will begrudgingly admit that you have the right of it Hill: it would not do well for a respected lord to lower himself and brawl like a fool with a bastard, and a kinslayer at that."

The other members of the family watched them both warily. The Azantys had originally thought that they would provided a better support to Cerran, but it was obvious know that they were too scared of saying anything; they were cravens, the whole lot of them.

Tyren feigned a tired sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I apologize for my behavior, my lord. It would seem so that I am overly excited over the night's festivities." He tried to steer the conversation in another direction, not having the full certainty that goading the lord into a heated argument would lend the results that he desired to achieve.

"See to it that you do not forget yourself bastard. The Father knows only how much nonsense I can hear before needing to release my frustrations." Hill internally cursed at the reoccurring mention of the Faith. He despised that religion for it unjustly demonized him, and was quickly getting tired of it.

He turned his gaze to Arice, and treated her to a polite smile, "My lady, you must surely be somewhat interested in the dances." "And with good reason Hill: those are the moments when the feast truly becomes pleasant to attend." Again, he smiled, "Well then, I am sure that the both of you will be splendent in your performances."

Unfortunately, the compliment did not generate the laughter that he had been hoping for, rather, the pair still held the cold, formal bearing that was expected of highborn such as them.

Silence stretched on between them, and the situation was beginning to become quite awkward and questionable. Tyren momentarily thought on how to proceed forward with his goal, and decided to take a risky decision.

He lowered his voice, so that he could be seen as more respectful and genuinely sad: "I known that this is not much, but you have my condolences my lord. For the years that I had known her, Lady Laurane was truly a splendid woman, she would have been an excellent mother."

Cerran's nostrils flared, and he quickly got right into Tyren's face, almost coming place his arms around his neck. "Do not dare disrespect my sister's memory like this bastard. I will not have it, do you hear me? You will not bring more shame on her image!" "Clam yourself my lord, I mean no offense."

But the Prester only seemed to grow angrier by the minute, "You know as well as anyone of her difficulties with carrying a child. You are insulting her figure like this, why must you act so so villainously? Are bastards such as yourself capable of nothing more? Hmm? What do you plan to do next? Usurp King Loren's ancestral throne?"

"You misunderstand me my lord, I did not, and do not intend to anger you with my condolences; they are as true as they can be." "Then you have an extremely poor choice of words Hill. Is that because you are too much of a simpleton to realize it?" Tyren attempted to play his cards in a safe manner, "Maybe it is that way my lord. For that, you once again have my apologies."

He moved away then, looking away as his wife placed a hand on his arm, and whispered, "Damned dragons. Laurane deserved to be a queen, nothing less of that. And instead she now lies deep in the dirt, surrounded by maggots and lowly worms. Oh Mother, what is it that I had done to make this cruel fate fall onto my honored sister?"

"At least she is at peace my lord. Now she and Loren will be reunited together for eternity." Cerran gave him a cold look: "You do not have the commodity, nor will you ever receive it, to speak of our fallen King in that manner. The Stranger should have taken you drying the trial by combat, you deserve to be subjected to the most horrendous and vile of punishments. Your corpse should be left to be feasted upon by the wild animals that roam the mountains."

Tyren was beginning to anger as well at the treatment that he was being given, but still did not retort back, even if a part of him desperately wanted to.  
"Peace my lord. I was forced to commit the deed. Even I realized that King Loren was a great man and an even better monarch." Cerran waved his hand at him and raised his voice, "Enough of these blatant lies, who do you take me for? A fool? Leave me and my family be, and cease this farce this instant! Go, and do not return unless it is to beg for forgiveness."

Tyren raised his head and gave him a bow that had an undertone of mock to it. "As you command my lord. I apologize once more for whatever insult I may have dealt to you and your loved ones." He turned on his heel and walked away.

He assumed that he had gotten lucky that the other lords and ladies hadn't taken notice of the small shout, and Tyren was at least thankful of it, for it gave him a few more opportunities to prod at the other suspects.  
But it did not change the fact that he had been incapable of understand if the Prester's were plotting anything. Fuck, he had given Cerran the perfect excuse to send him away.

It could have very well been that the man had faked his outrage, after all, Tyren had been very careful and had measured his tone and words so that they would fit the situation, and yet if one was to listen to the conversation, it still wouldn't have been convincing enough to prove his innocence in the talk. Even worse, was that the lord had all of the rights to behave the way that he did.

Marvelous, he had managed to ruin the chance to uncover any nefarious secrets that the Red Bull might have been hiding. It was disappointing, it truly was. But now he would only have to focus on retrieving any possible scrap of information that could potentially slip past the lips of a few proud nobles.

With a new mission set in mind, the Azantys made his way to the next noble family that might have held treason in their souls.

The Kennings stood on the opposite wall to him, so Tyren was forced to take a longer route to reach them, past the other tables. This was done to not attract unwanted attention, as passing by the center of the room would have likely accomplished this, as there was no one present there.

His gaze was brought to the massive doors that were opened, and to the herald who shouted out: "Welcoming Lord Rodner and Lady Liya Plumm!" The bastard did not wait to see the pair enter. They had not been suspected, so he would not give them any other thoughts.

He passed by a servant and had his goblet refilled. This was his second cup now, and he had yet to learn how much wine he could handle, so he promised himself to not drink anymore of it until the start of the feast.

Soon, he found the table which held the noble family, and for once, Tyren felt compelled to stop his approach: the man and woman were in the company of their son, a small child who could have been no older than eight namedays. He did not wish to question them like he was ordered to do, not in front of the child. Tyren could not bring himself to do that.

Gazing over the hall again, his eyes searched for the Spymaster that had given him the indications. Once he saw her, he walked to to her.  
Eraelys was conversing with a couple of Valyrians, so Tyren patiently waited for her to finish.

When the two men left her, he made his move, and quickly came up to her side, " _Hill, have you found anything that might be of some value to us."_ she spoke in High Valyrian, and he rolled his eyes.

" _Not the moment, no. I was not able to deduce if Prester hid something or if he innocent. I could tell." "You mean to say that you could not tell the difference?"_ Tyren sighed, cursing the language, " _Yes."_

" _What of the Kennnings then?"_ " _I have not talked them. They have the son with them."_ " _You did not question them because they were with their child?"_ He tilted his head towards the table and Eraelys directed her purple eyes to it.

" _Ah, I understand why." "Is there any other house that is suspect?" "House Lefford of the Golden Tooth."_ Hill nodded at that and silently moved away, having ended the conversation. " _Tyren."_

He turned to her to hear what she still had to say, " _Remember to still practice your skills by speaking."_ He nodded at her, honestly being fed up with the language.

The bastard began to slowly walk to the table that hosted the lords, thinking of the different approaches that he could take.  
Alas, he was not given the chance to continue, as the herald shouted an introduction once more, and Tyren turned just in time to watch as the royal family made their entrance.

He watched along with the rest of the noble families as the three Targaryens made their way to the center of the hall.

Coming first were Daemavon and Maenna. He was dressed in exquisite clothing of black and red, a coat resembling dragon scales adorned his shoulders and reached down to his waist. On the hand that was intertwined with that of his wife was a simple ring, gleaming in the light, evidence that it was made to Valyria steel.  
Maenna wore a fine dress that went from her feet to her neck, and that left her arms bare. The naked flesh was adorned with circlets around her forearms, and the curving shapes of the metal were furthermore decorated with many rubies.

But it was the person behind him that caught Tyren's attention the most.

The Westerman was used to seeing the Targaryen dragonlord in armor, and at those times it was undeniable that she held an ethereal and inhuman beauty that was that of a goddess.

But now, it was also as if she had somehow grown more beautiful and striking than before: the color of her gown was that of a deep, dark red, almost black, and it clung to her figure, displaying her well fit body and lean musculature. Additionally, the section that comprised her abdomen was marked by a series of sharp pieces made out of Valyrian steel, which formed to resemble the infernal teeth of a dragon.

Similarly to Maenna, her forearms were not covered by the precious silk, and displayed her pale skin. The only decor to those limbs were the few rings that were placed on her fingers.

Her shoulders were bare, and the top of her generous cleavage was left exposed to the outside, which managed to convey an image that was exotic and yet still contextually appropriate and moderate.

Laying against her sternum was a pendant, that of a dragon, with most of its twisting body being composed of the red crystal. Her ears were styled with earrings, which held more rubies in them; her hair was combed so that it formed three braids instead of one, almost as if forming a crown of silver over her head, which also framed the pale skin of her body.  
And it was because of this that her violet eyes were made infinitely more striking than they were before.

Tyren felt his breath catch in his throat at seeing her like this. Quickly, he swallowed and placed his hands behind his back.

Visenya gave a wide look over the assembled lords of the Westerlands, her eyes briefly making contact with Tyren's and cleared her throat: "My lords and ladies, I thank you for attending this feast. Your attendance to it shows that you are all good and honest people, worthy of much praise and esteem. And it is with these thoughts that I pronounce this celebration as born."

There were some cheers and a lot of polite clapping, Tyren being among the latter of those who reacted to the announcement.  
Many wished to speak to the dragoness and her older family, and as such, Tyren was left to his own devices.

It was now that the musicians had begun to strum the chords of their harps, and of their other instruments, and the servants that were lined along the walls could be seen carrying many trays stacked high with food and delicacies of the tongue.

The bastard looked over to the table reserved for the stable boys, the pages and other similarly classified individuals. Naturally, they were all Valyrian, he being the only Westerman; but it was a pleasant surprise to see that none of them sent him looks of hatred or intolerance.

And as he got closer, he also realized that they didn't speak a sentence of Common. Oh well, it mattered little in this case, and he would keep to himself if that was what it meant. Not that he wasn't used to doing such a thing.

Hill held a contemplative aura to him, as he stepped to one of the seats, the tip of his index finger rhythmically tapping at the silver exterior of his wine cup.  
He was about five footsteps away from reaching the unoccupied seat, but one of her guards, a royal one, blocked his path.

Tyren was initially startled at this, as from his point of view it had been like the man had appeared out of thin air, but he was quick to compose himself: " _How I help you Azantys?"_

The warrior held a gauntleted hand open, idly pointing towards the set of stairs that led to the table that symbolized the highest position of power and authority. Tyren frowned at this, " _What the problem? Is there any thing not right?"_ He wanted to cringe his eyes at the horrible phrase that he had formed, for he too recognized that it was syntactically incorrect.

" _You are to come and sit at the high table." "This one is perfect."_ He moved to circle around the guard and to the seat, but the Valyrian was insistent, placing an arm out and blocking his path, " _Her grace demands it."_

 _"What?" "Come, you must go."_ Confused, Tyren followed the guard up the steps, along with some other people and many, many more guards.

This particular furniture was the most elaborate and priceless out of all the other tables: the wood of it was of ebony, mixed with more linings of gold which was tinted a strong red. Once again, the colors of house Targaryen were being incorporated in every piece of material that was present to use.

He sat down at a seat that was specifically placed for him, and he found himself to be seated between the Spymaster to his left, and another Valyrian man that he did not know to his right.  
To the left of Eralys was Malnaris and then after him Daemavon Targaryen, Maenna and Visenya at the center of the rectangular shaped stand.

Behind the royal family stood Raenor Vassatrus, ever the vigilant protector, his eyes looking over the rest of the hall.

 _"You seem to be unsettled Hill, why is that?"_ He gazed at the woman next to him, as the servants placed the plates of silver in front of the seated guests.  
" _I thought that I going to be sitting down there."_ Eralys gave him a gentle smile, " _And why would you think that?"_ Tyren took his eyes away from her and focused on the steaming collection of cow ribs that had been bathed in a delightfully exquisite smelling soup, which contained crushed pieces of vegetables and spices, further amplifying the aroma.

" _I am a bastard. Bastards do not sit with high nobility." "Do not sell yourself so short Tyren. We are not like the followers of the Seven."_ He sighed, rubbing his temples; he was feeling nervous now that he was sitting at the table, in full view of all the other houses below. Gods, he did not need those snotty and arrogant lords to see him like this: it was all but certain that they had already begun to talk ill and whisper things that he would not care to hear of.

"Could we please speak in Common? I would find it easier to do it that way." "If that is what you want. Oh, do not forget to add the salt and pepper."

His hand hesitated in its movement when reaching towards the small glass bowl which contained the white substance, "From the way that you talk, I would come to the conclusion that you have already been in the position of consuming this dish." "Why yes, I have done so many a time. Mine is only a personal suggestion." "I will keep account of it... I have never seen beef be cooked in this manner."

His thirst was returning, so he instinctively went to grab his cup, but found it to be missing from the spot in which he had previously left it.  
"What are you looking for?" "My wine cup." Tyren mumbled as he decided to use the crystal glass that had been left untouched in front of him, pouring the beverage from its apposite pitcher.

"Hmm, the servants must have taken it while you were distracted." "They could have at least told me; this is good wine." "It indeed is."  
After that, Tyren settled in the process of eating the food, and all of the subsequent courses that came following this first meal.

He did not interact much with the other Valyrian, nor did he continue the small talk with Eralys. But a thing that the bastard did was to avoid looking at the rest of the tables. He had no want of seeing the other nobles; he already felt at edge where he was.

In truth, he had grown tired of the feast, and wished simply to retire to his own bedchambers and to rest on the comfortable mattress of his bed.

It wasn't long then that mood of the people began to change, and as time passed more and more where standing up and interacting with each other once more. There seemed to be some kind of excitement that was building up in the room, and Tyren theorized that it was because the dances were about to commence.

He was proven correct when the conqueror addressed the attendees again, and allowed the musicians to take control of the atmosphere, playing diverse songs as the nobles, those that were married and those that were still young assembled at the center of the hall and began to twirl around each other, doing all of those complicated turns and moves that Hill had been forced to study.

The majority of the Valyrians at the table had left to take part in the event, including the Dark Bane and his honored partner.

Tyren sighed and leant back in the chair. He did not see a reason in staying any longer, he knew that soon, he would officially take his leave, once again through one of the minor doors to not attract attention.

He briefly closed his eyes, reminiscing of what it felt like to walk through the line fields of the Westerlands, comforted by the cooling winds that were always present in those areas.  
Signing again, the bastard filled his glass again, but a hand stopped it from reaching his mouth.

Tyren stilled as Visenya pushed the object away from his grasp, "I would say that you have had enough for one night Hill." It was an order to cease his drinking, and he personally did not feel compelled to argue against her on this. "As you wish your grace."

Her piercing eyes locked on the medallion, and then on the sewed sigil. She moved away from him, but not before saying: "Come along Hill. It is our turn next." He thought he had heard her wrong as he was getting up, and followed behind her, being flanked on all sides by the royal guards, "Forgive me for asking again, but I fear that I fail to comprehend what you said." She did not turn around, "We are going to dance Hill."

They had gotten to the base of the stairs, and already a few of the nobles had noticed his close proximity to the royal Valyrian, "Your grace, this is wrong, we should not- "Are you refusing my order boy?"

"No your grace, I am saying that it will be talked about, and that- "If these quarreling lords wish to do so then let them. It is of no concern to me. _Now, prepare yourself."_ As always, Tyren pushed aside the feeling of unease that he felt when being under the unjust scrutiny of others.

A few of the other dancing nobles cleared the space a little so to leave the ruler of New Valyria an adequate area of movement.

Looking over to him, she placed a hand on his shoulder, and the other held his own. Tyren brogjt his arm to gently curve around her side and rest against her clothed back.

He was hesitant with touching her, not feeling appropriate in doing so, much less when under the tight scrutiny of the other lords.  
" _Do you fear that my skin shall burn you?"_ Although the words were those of a jest, they were not spoken in that matter, nor did her face assume any mischievous look it. " _No. I do not think this is right."_

The music begins to place once more, and they began to move to the beats of the drums. The bastard was careful with how he walked, ever afraid that his feet would step on her own. The urge to look down at them was one that was terrible to ignore, and the Targaryen must have noticed how stiff he was, for her fingers clenched tighter around his shoulder.

 _"Did you learn anything new?"_ She had purposefully leant closer to him, so that her breasts were slightly pressed against his chest, and her lower abdomen and hips brushed against his own. Tyren began to sweat at the close proximity of her body; the wine from earlier was returning its undesired effects on his body and his head began to feel light.

" _Hill. Answer my question."_ Her whisper drawer his attention back to her cold face and to her eyes, " _This dance is your opportunity of telling me what it is that you have discovered of my vassals."_ He composed himself, feeling his heart beating wildly against the bones of his ribcage.

His mouth was dry, and the hairs at his back stood up to an end. Tyren could not understand what was happening to him, why he was reacting in this way. He expected to feel distraught, anxious, perhaps angry even, but he did not. It was as if he had been bewitched by a spell.

 _"Hill, my patience is running out. Did you succeed in your order?"_ The nails of her fingers painfully sighed into his own flesh, to the point that she even drew blood.

" _No, forgive me. I cannot tell house Prester if treason."_ Visenya finally retreat some from the closeness, allowing Tyren to breathe a little easier.

He hadn't even realized it, but his movements had continued on to the tune of the sung song, passively so as he had been worrying over what was being said between them, and this was accomplished by following her movements and her lead.

_"Your grace, do you need- "It is an unfortunate thing that you failed to do your assigned task, but you did make a valiant effort, and my Spymaster would rather fall on a sword before betraying me."_

The harsh gaze that was always etched on her features softened by the slightest of margins, and her hold gradually lost its strength. Still, it did not take away the unease that he felt when her purple orbs one served his own face.  
" _What is unsettling you?"_ She was it, she was the reason for why his legs were feeling weak at the knees.

Tyren felt shame come to his cheeks: he felt as if he were a simple boy who had barely reached the age of manhood. Fuck all of the Seven Kingdoms and the Seven Hells, this dragonlord had him at her mercy.

" _I do not like it your grace."_ His eyes briefly pointed elsewhere in the hall, but it was enough for Visenya to understand what he meant. " _You are afraid of the fact that tongues shall waggle with gossip on our disposition?"_ She looked uncaring of the thought, almost distant from it; " _I am."_

They twirled in a circle three times as they continued with the pace of the chords. " _Then you will have to learn how to behave in such public events. They shall only become more common from this point going forward."_ Tyren felt hot, and the silk clothes upon him now felt unnaturally tight, procuring him discomfort.

" _Why did you make me dance?"_ " _It would have been less suspicious this way. Unfortunately, we cannot afford the common decency of private conversations for the moment; so this was the only other way of doing so."_ And yet, it did not feel right in doing so. The more the bastard though about it, the more his stomach would churn in worry of some unrecognized threat.

 _"Must we continue?" "Until the end of the bards' performance. And after that, we shall dance for another two turns."_ He asked the question that had originated from her statement, " _Why two?"_

The Targaryen seemed oddly calm about his incessant questioning, and not irritated. Whilst Tyren felt very uncomfortable dancing in front of the Westerlands' gathered nobility, especially now that he was a breath's distance away from _her,_ Visenya was at ease with the situation. It was rather surprising considering her fondness for wearing armor over the soft cull of a dress, but it apparently showed another layer to her being.

But it did not mean that her harsh and stern demeanor diminished: she was ever the serious, unwavering personification of ruthless calculation and planned action. Such was evident by the measured control in all of her movements.

 _"To disperse any linger thoughts of confusions."_ Tyren adverted his gaze, his frustration seeping out of its dark cell. _"Why? Could you not waited until the feast over?"_ " _Does it matter Hill? If these capricious lords and ladies think that it is of bad manners of me to dance with a bastard, then they still have yet to understand the order of this new realm."_

The pipes and flutes ended their songs, and for a few moments there was silence as they prepared themselves to play anew.

" _They do not know that we will married."_ The Westerman spoke. " _They will not happy."_ And they would not be the only ones.

" _Their concerns and opinions are nonexistent."_ She had let go of the hold that was on his shoulder, but strangely, she still held onto his hand, her skin warm against his own.

" _I hope that you would not mind if we switched places Azantys. I would like to have this next dance with my niece."_ Daemavon's voice startled him, and he turned to look as the older pair approached them.

" _As you wish your grace."_ He had stepped back then, but a soft cough from the dragonrider made him look up once more.

 _"It would not do to leave a lady like me alone at such an event, would it not?"_ Tyren gently repeated the same pose that he had assumed when serving Visenya, and quickly resumed the ongoing rhythm.  
His mind noticed that Maenna's hands did not prod into his flesh: they were polite, gentle even, in their mannerisms; so unlike the treatment of her fellow blood.

" _You are royalty. High above a lady." "Yes, but when compared to the rest of my family, me and Dae would be considered as nobles."_ He did not comment further on her statement.

He calmed down some, and began to find the action he was partaking in to be quite enjoyable. " _You do not appear to speak much on this night, is there something on your mind?"_ " _Partially, you grace."_ A small smile appeared on her face, and Tyren sighed as he knew that it was due to his shortcomings in High Valyrian.

"I apologize. It was rude of me to find humor in your pronunciation." She said, in Common. "Are you sure of wanting to speak this way, your grace?" Tyren asked as he allowed the dragonrider to spin under his raised arm, "It means little to me Tyren Hill. Until you are comfortable enough to speak High Valyrian, we will communicate with your own mother tongue." "You are generous, your grace." "Thank you Tyren."

As the song continued, the bastard felt his nervousness begin to crumble away. But it halted when he narrowly missed stepping on her, "I beg you pardon your grace." He immediately apologized, "Do not fret Tyren. We all make mistakes in doing new things. This is your first proper dance, yes?" "It is your grace." "You certainly seem more experienced then what you claim."

The bastard smirked as he looked behind her to cast a glance to the other Valyrians. "You honor me with your words, your grace." They did not talk after that, and when the second song ended, the roles of the two women were reversed once more.

"Excuse me, your grace, I would be deeply gratified if you'd had this next dance with me." A man, wearing the colors of house Marbrand appeared next to them before they touched.  
Visenya had already turned her piercing glare to him when Hill retreated from behind.

Fortunately, there wasn't much attention being placed on him, for it was mostly concentrated on what was happening at the center of the hall.  
And it was with that opportunity that Tyren was allowed to return to the more tenebrous corridors of the restructured Valyrian fortress.

He undid a couple of the buttons that kept the collar of his tunic together. Seven Hells, he was sweating profoundly under the garments; it was made obvious that he would need something lighter to wear.

The guards that he passed by did not stop him for questioning, nor did they do anything other than giving him a tilted look.

As his feet took him ever closer to the relative safety of his quarters, Tyren was able to her the pair of heavy footsteps that were following him from behind. It was apparent that the figure was wearing armor due to the clanking noise of his footsteps.

The Westerman ignored this seemingly innocuous detail, but was forced to reconsider it when a sentence in High Valyrian was directed towards him.

" _Azantys Hill."_

Tyren turned around to see that Vassatrus stood some distance away from him. In the dimly lit corridor, his arm looked to have been forged in the depths of the night, for it would not have been visible if not for the shine of the Valyrian steel over the major plates, and the accents of the red painted sections.

The faceplate of his helm was held up and open, at least giving the man a small part of humanity that served to shy away the notion that he was a demon made flesh.  
" _How can help you captain royal?"_ He asked the man... though the rations part of him had already come to the probable conclusion of why he was here, it certainly did not hurt for him to be cordial and polite.

" _You left the feast early. Without her grace's permission."_ He stated, and the bastard could not detect whether or not his stance was one that was hostile to him.

" _Did I need to ask?" "Naturally, yes."_ He let out a small sigh through his nose. " _Did she send you to retrieve I?"_

 _"Not to retrieve you, but to understand what it is that you are doing." "I going to bed. Need sleep and rest. Tired."_ He explained.  
The Valyrian did not take a step forward, but nodded his head: " _I see. However, you must understand that what you did was not respectful, on the contrary, it was quite insulting towards our ruler."_

_"I did not want to offend." "You did not offend her, but the problem is that you did so in front of other nobles." "They not notice me."_

_"I did though."_ Hill stepped around once more, " _Because you were looking active. Good night captain."_ He concluded the conversation and continued on his path.

As soon as he turned by the next wall, Tyren doubled the speed of his walk. That had gone better then expected, and it was strange that the dragoness did not order the man at arms to return him to that hall filled with laughter, food, music and celebration.

He chided himself now: it was not time to get distracted by these thoughts, that was to happen when he was alone in his bedchambers.  
Another five minutes had passed, and that was how long it took Tyren to arrive at the luxurious and respectable quarters that had been assigned to him.

Alone, he turned the handle of the ornate door downwards, and pushed against the barrier that separated him from the spot where he was usual to lay down upon.

It was in the comfort of his chambers that he undid the clasps of the tunic, and let it carelessly slide off his body and to the floor.

He was tired, he felt very tired in fact, as if he had spent the entire day in the sparring yard, training against Vassatrus.  
It was time indeed to sleep, and Tyren did not waste a moment more in freeing himself from the confines of the clothes.

He only put on a new pair of small clothes and allowed himself to spread his limbs over the entirety of the bed, covering the most amount of area over it that he could.

A content groan escaped his lips, his muscles sagging in ecstasy as he removed all manner of control from them by his part. It was a wonderful sensation that washed all over him.

With the last of the willpower that he had left in him, Tyren reached his arm out and drew the covers of the e bed over him, promptly being swallowed by the thick layer of silk and cotton of it.

Right now Tyren did not want to think of other things, of treasonous nobles or of wrathful dragonriders; he only wished to gain a few hours of sleep in the natural confines of his bed.

Whatever problems that had generated would be addressed on the following day.  
  


**Visenya Targaryen IX**

" _I presume that the various courses were to your liking?" "They were, dear Visenya, delicious as they always are."_

The Dark Bane chuckled heartily, " _Indeed, and I was surprised to see how good of a dancer you've become: for a moment, I thought I was with Rhaenys, not you."_ That garnered her to display a minor smile that pointed upwards.

_"I have tried to give some thought to what the two of you have constantly told me, but I still reaffirm that wearing a dress is not as comfortable as wearing my own armor." "It is at least an initial improvement."_

They had arrived to the family wing of the castle proper, and they were climbing the stairs that would lead to their bedchambers.  
" _Though Visenya, have you found any more information regarding the traitors amongst your servants?"_ The Targaryen conqueror was prone to shaking her head: " _No. We do have a clue, my Spymaster was capable enough of finding a connection with a number of men who have recently left their post and returned to the City. Unfortunately, they have yet to be found, and I am one step away from writing a list of bounties to put on their heads."_

 _"Then it is good that the stolen wildfire has been destroyed; although the destruction of the unlucky warship to have found it represents a notable loss of life." "The families of the sailors who perished were given an adequate compensation in coin, and a few funerals have been organized by my couriers. The names of those men are being carved on the front gate that leads to the port. Their sacrifice will be documented."_ Maenna hummed in approval.

" _Well, I find myself weary after all of this feasting. So it is with that thought that I bless you both with a good night's sleep."_

Visenya and Daemavon were left on her own as they came to a stop in front of the door in which their other relative had entered.

" _Are you good my niece? You seem troubled." "I have been thinking,"_ She began to speak and standing behind one of the statues that adorned the hall, looking up to its composition of stone, steel and rubies.

" _Of how to proceed with my marriage, and more particularly, with how to proceed with my betrothed." "Tyren yes?"_ The uncle asked as he came closer to her.

 _"He is hiding something from me, and that irks me."_ The Targaryen warrior chuckled, " _That does not mean that you must necessarily take it as a threat."_

 _"Then what would you suggest I do? I offered him help and counsel, but he declined them."_ The white haired man rested a hand on her back, " _Then it is something that he wishes to keep to himself. Give him time, I am sure that whatever is bothering him will pass soon enough."_

Vhagar's rider clasped her fingers together, " _I plan to announce the date of our union." "Oh,"_ That surprised him. " _Then I'd imagine that my dear brother will be happy to know of that, as will the rest of our family."_

_"It is time to go forth with our plans. The event will be a private one, reserved for our own blood." "Hmm. I am glad to hear that, but it brings in perpetual conflict Tyren's name. He is a Hill, not Lannister. He has yet to be legitimized."_

_"Do not worry about that, I shall write to Aegon about it, and on the next occasion that he travels here, the deed will be done." "Good. I am proud of you Visenya. We all are, little Aemon would have been blessed to have a cousin like you."_

**A few days later...**

There were some loud noises: the clatter of many royal guards could be heard as they walked on the cold grey stones that composed the ground beneath them.

The group of four were currently dragging a limp body between them, uncaring of the fact that its legs were not active and that they were receiving some minor cuts.

Another one of their loyal brothers opened the heavy door in front of them, and allowed entrance to the dark room inside.

The unconscious figure was thrown into the empty chair that was placed at the center of the chambers. His arms and legs were tightly tied to the rests and poles of it, to the point that the laces were leaving brusisse on his skin.

Visenya watched with unforgiving eyes as the man was strapped and bound. Behind her, a furnace was blistering with heat, as a hooded individual kept stocking the wood and charcoal inside of it, keeping the temperature heavy and raising it by a noticeable margin every minute or so.

The dragoness flicked her hand to the guards, and a bucket containing cold water was thrown on the head of the sleeping man.  
The Valyrian awoke with a jump and gasped, desperately trying to get up as he coughed and sputtered.

A trail of blood could be seen sliding down the side of his head, mixed with the water. The gnarly wound on it looked terrible and deep, indicating that his captors had been none too gentle when ha fling him.

Slowly, the man regained his wits as his eyes focused on the dim light of the room. He tilted his gaze upwards and it came across the Targaryen. The beggar paled and began to mumble apologies and compliments, addressing her by her title, offering more excuses and such.

But it came to an end when Visenya's voice lashed out like a sword, cutting away at the other's verbal defense: " _Stop it."_ A hand stopped on Dark Sister's hilt, while the other rested against the side of her armored thigh.

" _You must already know why you are here, lying is pointless, so I shall not waste another moment."_ She leaned closer to him, " _Why did you help the Sons of the Rock?"_

The man, gulped, lips moving aimlessly as he tried to give an excuse and answer, " _Y-Your grace! I- I did it for the gold! They offered me three hundred pieces, and a thousand more!"_ The conqueror's face did not change at his confession; what had been told was not enough. Not enough in the slightest.

" _Where is the sum of money being kept?"_ He turned his gaze away, not wanting to reveal information.  
With a narrowed scowl, Visenya stepped back and motioned to the torturer to proceed with his work.

A couple of guards came forth and held the struggling man still as the blazing red iron rod was brought out of the forge and to the outside of it.  
" _Your grace! Please your grace! Please! I will tell you anything!"_ The man screamed as tears began to fall from his orbs.

When he saw that the dragonlord's heartless gaze did not morph into one of compassion and mercy, he began to shake his head to the sides, crying as the staff was brought closer still.

His blood curling screams of pain tore through the dark chambers as the rod was pressed against his pectoral muscle, the metal biting away at the flesh and muscle with a loud hiss. The man shook violently but that only caused the scalding end of the staff to dig deeper and worsen the burn.

After keeping the metal on him for an ample amount of time, the torturer removed it from the traitor, a small stand of skin coming off along with it.

What was left of the spot was a mangled mess of steaming skin. The person trembled from the sheer shock and pain that his body was experiencing, his cries being reduced to whimpers.

As the tormentor moved away to reheat the branding iron, Visenya stepped forth in front of him, " _Well?"_ She demanded, " _Where is the coin?"_

_"In... in my home. I-It's is at the south of the city. A few districts away from the gate. It is close to the wall. You will find the bag inside a cabinet." "Who else took profit in the treacherous act?"_

He did not raise his head, " _We were the only ones. There was no one else."_

Again, the dragonlord motioned to the man in dark robes to continue on with the torture, and the prisoner began to cry, " _I told you the truth! You wanted it! I am not-_ He was not allowed to finish that phrase as the next sound to his escape his throat was another scream.

It went on like that for an hour. The traitor passed out several times due to the unbearable pain, but was awoken again to receive more torment.

Eventually though, it became evident that his resolve to speak was growing weaker, even after having broken the bones in his arms and legs with the blows of a heavy hammer.

Visenya still was not satisfied with what the man had said, he was still concealing facts that would lead to a decisive victory against the rebellious group.

" _Where are the traitors located? From where do they operate?"_ She had already asked him this question a few times, but was still refused an answer. Having had enough, she unsheathed the Valyrian steel blade and pressed it against the cartilage of his ear, at the point in which it connected to the rest of his head, and because of the sword's sharpness, a small cut had already formed, and red blood was bathing it.

" _Talk. You will suffer if you do not."_ The man did not reply, and the Targaryen complied to it. She gripped the pommel of the sword, and pushed it upwards. A spray of blood later, the cut off ear landed on the floor, followed by droplets of red.

Visenya was not troubled with the man's yelling, she merely moved the blade so that it rested against his wrist. " _Your hand will be next. Where are the Sons of the Rock?"_ Still, he did not answer, and she brutally draggef the sword through the tendons, removing the body part, which caused more screams to echo out.

" _Will you talk now?" "Yes!"_ He cried, and told them everything that he knew.  
" _You will be hanged on the morrow with your other friends, as per your crimes and offense." "Your g-grace please, have m-my life spared! I said everything I knew-w!"_ His fear was palpable, but Visenya was not touched by it.

" _You lost the right to life the moment that you agreed to help the rebels. This is your punishment for doing so."_ She wiped the blood off Dark Sister with a cloth, and walked away from the room, ignoring the pleads of the man behind her.  
Eralys was waiting on the other side of the door, pacing up and down the corridor.

She stopped once she saw the royal walk towards her, " _Your grace."_ She bowed, " _I take it that you are done?" "Yes."_

The Spyamster walked besides her, loyally listening to her words, " _There are no more turncoats left. This one was the last of them." "Indeed you grace."_

 _"Spymaster,"_ The Targaryen stopped, looking at her in the eye, " _All of them said that the rebels were compensating them with great sums of gold, numbering in the hundreds of gold dragons."_ That gave Eralys pause, and she pursed her lips, " _It should not be possible for them to have such monetary funds. That logically means that these rebels are working with other powerful figures."_

It was then that Taraenyon remembered a peculiar detail: " _Gerald Lefford. He did approach you once during the feast." "Precisely. You already placed spies among his men, but there is need for more information. House Lefford and Prester are our two primary suspects at the moment, and it is likely that those lords are supporting the Sons of the Rock." "They are very rich in wealth. They can afford to spare a few coins, sets of armors and weapons of castle forged steel."_ The Spymaster continued, understanding her reasoning.

 _"We were lucky with this accident. The traitors could have stolen the black powder as well. We were even more fortunate that the wildfire detonated in the open sea, and not somewhere populated. You must already known what this necessitates."_ Tarenyon nodded: " _Your grace, I will make sure that the connection of spies is amplified over our territory." "Good. The number of guards will be increased. I want the word to be spread about this, as it will be likely that many a young men shall dream of learning how to properly swing a sword and ride a horse."_

With a sign of confirmation, the spymaster was sent on her way.

Visenya traveled out of the dungeon, finding that an escort had already been waiting for her at the end of the tunnel.

They were one step closer to eradicating the opposing resistance. Reforming the Westerlands had been an arduous task, but it would undoubtedly become easier.  
The information on where the rebels' base was located was priceless in its importance. Now, she would purge Queensguard of these opposers, and go forth with the plans that had been set in motion by her ancestors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how to feel with this chapter: I think it might have come out bad do to me focusing so much attention on the feast. I hope that it was at least enjoyable to read.  
> Additionally, I also wanted to say that updates will be taking longer now, the next chapter will be uploaded next thursday. Please remember to drop a comment and any other ideas or questions, for it helps to guide me in the writing process.

**Author's Note:**

> That was the first chapter.  
> Please do comment, critique if you want (constructive criticism is appreciated) please let me know what you thought about the characters and such.  
> The next chapter will be out next weekend.


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